Dry Robe Quotes

You have been walking the ocean's edge, holding up your robes to keep them dry. You must dive naked under and deeper under, a thousand times deeper. Love flows down. The ground submits to the sky and suffers what comes. Tell me, is the earth worse for giving in like that? Do not put blankets over the drum. Open completely.

Morning Poem" I've got to tell you how I love you always I think of it on grey mornings with death in my mouth the tea is never hot enough then and the cigarette dry the maroon robe chills me I need you and look out the window at the noiseless snow At night on the dock the buses glow like clouds and I am lonely thinking of flutes I miss you always when I go to the beach the sand is wet with tears that seem mine although I never weep and hold you in my heart with a very real humor you'd be proud of the parking lot is crowded and I stand rattling my keys the car is empty as a bicycle what are you doing now where did you eat your lunch and were there lots of anchovies it is difficult to think of you without me in the sentence you depress me when you are alone Last night the stars were numerous and today snow is their calling card I'll not be cordial there is nothing that distracts me music is only a crossword puzzle do you know how it is when you are the only passenger if there is a place further from me I beg you do not go

You have been walking the water's edge, holding up your robes to keep them dry. You must dive naked under, deeper, under a thousand times deeper. Love flows down.

The built-in preventative of another person meant I couldn’t indulge the animal feelings, couldn’t leave orange peels in the kitchen sink. I dressed right after breakfast instead of haunting my robe all day. Swiped on mascara from a mostly dried-up tube. These were the cogent human labors, the daily tasks that staved larger panics, but living alone had gotten me out of the habit—I didn’t feel substantial enough to warrant this kind of effort. I

Saying down with the blacks but uplift the white race Raising the banner to the sun in haste Mobbed deep, hoods and capes Sun-dried and bloodstained Saying down with the blacks but uplift the white race Unjustly tried an indelible conviction the usual result of five shades of darker skin Justice unjust, black robes and pale face Didn't have a chance, they called us apes I wish I would have known the false smiles Evil intentions fulfilling their taste Why me? Why us? Justice unjust, black robes and pale faces?

Old Time heaved a moldy sigh from tomb and arch and vault; and gloomy shadows began to deepen in corners; and damps began to rise from green patches of stone; and jewels, cast upon the pavement of the nave from stained glass by the declining sun, began to perish. Within the grill-gate of the chancel, up the steps surmounted loomingly by the fast darkening organ, white robes could be dimly seen, and one feeble voice, rising and falling in a cracked monotonous mutter, could at intervals be faintly heard. In the free outer air, the river, the green pastures, and the brown arable lands, the teeming hills and dales, were reddened by the sunset: while the distant little windows in windmills and farm homesteads, shone, patches of bright beaten gold. In the Cathedral, all became gee, murky, and sepulchral, and the cracked monotonous mutter went on like a dying voice, until the organ and the choir burst forth, and drowned it in a sea of music. Then, the sea fell, and the dying voice made another feeble effort, and then the sea rose high, and beat its life out, and lashed the roof, and surged among the arches, and pierced the heights of the great tower; and then the sea was dry, and all was still.

I suppose the real reason Ginny Weasley's like this is because she opened her heart and spilled all her secrets to an invisible stranger." "What are you talking about?" said Harry. "The diary," said Riddle. "My diary. Little Ginny's been writing in it for months and months, telling me all her pitiful worries and woes- how her brothers tease her, how she had come to school with secondhand robes and books, how"- Riddle's eyes glinted- "how she didn't think famous, good, great Harry Potter would ever like her..." All the time he spoke, Riddle's eyes never left Harry's face. There was an almost hungry look in them. "It's very boring, having to listen to the silly little troubles of an eleven-year-old girl," he went on. "But I was patient. I wrote back. I was sympathetic, I was kind. Ginny simply loved me. No one's ever understood me like you, Tom... I'm so glad I've got this diary to confide in.... It's like having a friend I can carry around in my pocket...." Riddle laughed, a high, cold laugh that didn't suit him. It made the hairs stand up on the back of Harry's neck. "If I say it myself, Harry, I've always been able to charm the people I needed. So Ginny poured out her soul to me, and her soul happened to be exactly what I wanted.... I grew stronger and stronger on a diet of her deepest fears, her darkest secrets. I grew powerful, more powerful than little Miss Weasley. Powerful enough to start feeding Miss Weasley a few of my secrets, to start pouring a little of my soul into her..." "What d'you mean?" said Harry, whose mouth had gone dry. "Haven't you guessed yet, Harry Potter?" said Riddle softly. "Ginny Weasley opened the Chamber of Secrets. She strangled the school roosters and daubed threatening messages on the walls. She set the Serpent of Slytherin on four Mudbloods, and the Squib's cat." "No," Harry whispered. "Yes," said Riddle, calmly. "Of course, she didn't know what she was doing at first. It was very amusing. I wish you could have seen her new diary entries... far more interesting, they became... Dear Tom," he recited, watching Harry's horrified face, "I think I'm losing my memory. There are rooster feathers all over my robes and I don't know how they got there. Dear Tom, I can't remember what I did on the night of Halloween, but a cat was attacked and I've got paint all down my front. Dear Tom, Percy keeps telling me I'm pale and I'm not myself. I think he suspects me.... There was another attack today and I don't know where I was. Tom, what am I going to do? I think I'm going mad.... I think I'm the one attacking everyone, Tom!

The wild Comanche and Apache were no amenable to the gentle philosophy of Christ nor were they tamed by the mysteries and elaborate ceremonials of the church. The war-whoop was sweater to them than evening vespers; the crescent bow was a better symbol of their desires than the holy cross; and it was far more joyful, in their eyes, to chase the shaggy buffalo on pinto ponies than to practice the art of dry-farming under the direction of black-robed priest.

The whips and the instruments of torture, the dust or salts from the jug of “Materia”, the two lekythoi from the “Custodes” shelf, the robes, the formulae on the walls, the notes on the pad, the hints from letters and legends, and the thousand glimpses, doubts, and suppositions which had come to torment the friends and parents of Charles Ward—all these engulfed the doctor in a tidal wave of horror as he looked at that dry greenish powder outspread in the pedestalled leaden kylix on the floor.

Sprawled out, the Suriel's bony chest heaved unevenly, its breaths few and far between. Dying. I slid to my knees before it, sinking into the blood moss. 'Let me help you. I can heal you.' I'd do it the same way I'd helped Rhysand. Remove those arrows- and offer it my blood. I reached for the first one, but a dry, bony hand settled on my wrist. 'Your magic...' it rasped, 'is spent. Do not... waste it.' 'I can save you.' It only gripped my wrist. 'I am already gone.' 'What- what can I do?' The words turned thin- brittle. 'Stay...' it breathed. 'Stay... until the end.' I took its hand in mine. 'I'm sorry.' It was all I could think to say. I had done this- I had brought it here. 'I knew,' it gasped, sensing my shift in thoughts. 'The tracking... I knew of it.' 'Then why come at all?' 'You... you were kind. You... fought your fear. You were... kind,' it said again. I began crying. 'And you were kind to me,' I said, not brushing away the tears that fell onto its bloodied, tattered robe. 'Thank you- for helping me. When no one else would.' A small smile on that lipless mouth. 'Feyre Archeron.' A laboured breath. 'I told you- to stay with the High Lord. And you did.' Its warning to me that first time we'd met. 'You- you meant Rhys.' All this time, all this time- 'Stay with him... and live to see everything righted.' 'Yes, I did- and it was.' 'No- not yet. Stay with him.' 'I will.' I always would. Its chest rose- then fell. 'I don't even know your name,' I whispered. The Suriel- it was a title, a name for its kind. That small smile again. 'Does it matter, Cursebreaker?' 'Yes.' Its eyes dimmed, but it did not tell me. It only said, 'You should go now. Worse things- worse things are coming. The blood... draws them.' I squeezed its bony hand, the leathery skin growing colder. 'I can stay a while longer.' I had killed enough animals to know when a body neared death. Soon, now- it would be a matter of breaths. 'Feyre Archeron,' the Suriel said again, gazing at the leafy canopy, the sky peeking through it. A painful inhale. 'A request.' I leaned close. 'Anything.' Another rattling breath. 'Leave this world... a better place than how you found it.' And as its chest rose and stopped altogether, as its breath escaped in one last sigh, I understood why the Suriel had come to help me, again and again. Not just for kindness... but because it was a dreamer. And it was the heart of a dreamer that had created healing inside that monstrous chest. Its sudden silence echoed in my own. I laid my head on its chest, on that now-silent vault of bone, and wept. I wept and wept, until there was a strong hand at my shoulder.

After the tail ( of a buffalo) was cut off - as a trophy for the conqueror- nothing was left to waste: the meat was dried, the heart smoked, the intestines made into sausages. Oils from the bison's brain were rubbed over the hide, which was then transformed into leather for robes and lodge coverings. And still there was more to reap: horns were turned into spoons, sinews into bowstrings, tallow into fuel for torches....In 1877, there were virtually no more American Buffalo to hunt- a development hastened by the authorities who encouraged settlers to eradicate the beasts, knowing that, in the words os an army officer, "every buffalo dead is an Indian gone.

Dream Meditation Practices are best performed in an isolated (close to nature) chamber that is clean and dry. Diet should be modified before practice so that solid food is reduced and a sense of lightness is obtained. This meditation is best done after bathing; the student can be nude or wear a light robe. Begin by lying on your back. Focus your mind on the lower tan tien. Summon the spirits residing in the organs by chanting their names in the order of the creation cycle: Houhou or Shen (heart), Beibei or Yi (spleen), Yanyan or Po (lungs), Fu Fu or Zhi (kidneys), and Jianjian or Hun (liver).20 Repeat the chanting and gathering until a bright light and warmth appear in the lower tan tien. Opening this place will automatically open the Microcosmic Orbit. Coordinate your breathing with this meditation to assist the process: inhaling stimulates the kidneys and liver, while exhaling moves the heart and lungs to the centerpoint—the stomach and spleen. Bring the merged five spirits from the lower tan tien (you can also include the other four spirits) up to the heart, and then to the Crystal Palace (also known as the Divine Palace or Hall of Light). The team of merged spirits—now the Yuan Shen or Original Spirit—can exit via the crown. Being conscious during the whole dream, or alternatively remembering the dream after waking, completes the process. You also have the choice of practicing meditation during your dream state. Process the content of the dream during the day, taking any actions in the material world that are now necessary. Remember that one of our goals with the Kan and Li practice is to merge the everyday mind with your dream landscape and meditation. Fusion of these three minds (different from the three tan tiens) is a feature of the developing sage. Ideally, dreaming can include the practice of Microcosmic Orbit, Fusion, and even Kan and Li.

When they finally left the bed, they were giddy. Christopher made a project of bathing her, drying her, even brushing her hair. She brought his robe and sat beside the bathtub as he washed. Occasionally she leaned downward to steal a kiss. They invented endearments for each other. Small marital intimacies that meant nothing and everything. They were collecting them, just as they were collecting words and memories, all of it containing special resonance for the two of them. Beatrix turned down all the lamps except the one on the night table. “Time for bed,” she murmured. Christopher stood at the threshold, watching his wife slip beneath the covers, her hair falling in a loose braid over one shoulder. She gave him the look that by now had become familiar…patiently encouraging. A Beatrix look. A lifetime with such a woman was not nearly enough. Taking a deep breath, Christopher made a decision. “I want the left side,” he said, and turned down the last lamp. He got into bed with his wife, taking her into his arms. And together they slept until morning.

Dying. I slid to my knees before it, sinking into the bloody moss. “Let me help you. I can heal you.” I’d do it the same way I’d helped Rhysand. Remove those arrows—and offer it my blood. I reached for the first one, but a dry, bony hand settled on my wrist. “Your magic …,” it rasped, “is spent. Do not … waste it.” “I can save you.” It only gripped my wrist. “I am already gone.” “What—what can I do?” The words turned thin—brittle. “Stay …,” it breathed. “Stay … until the end.” I took its hand in mine. “I’m sorry.” It was all I could think to say. I had done this—I had brought it here. “I knew,” it gasped, sensing my shift in thoughts. “The tracking … I knew of it.” “Then why come at all?” “You … were kind. You … fought your fear. You were … kind,” it said again. I began crying. “And you were kind to me,” I said, not brushing away the tears that fell onto its bloodied, tattered robe. “Thank you—for helping me. When no one else would.” A small smile on that lipless mouth. “Feyre Archeron.” A labored breath. “I told you—to stay with the High Lord. And you did.” Its warning to me that first time we’d met. “You—you meant Rhys.” All this time. All this time— “Stay with him … and live to see everything righted.” “Yes. I did—and it was.” “No—not yet. Stay with him.” “I will.” I always would. Its chest rose—then fell. “I don’t even know your name,” I whispered. The Suriel—it was a title, a name for its kind. That small smile again. “Does it matter, Cursebreaker?” “Yes.” Its eyes dimmed, but it did not tell me. It only said, “You should go now. Worse things—worse things are coming. The blood … draws them.” I squeezed its bony hand, the leathery skin growing colder. “I can stay a while longer.” I had killed enough animals to know when a body neared death. Soon, now—it would be a matter of breaths. “Feyre Archeron,” the Suriel said again, gazing at the leafy canopy, the sky peeking through it. A painful inhale. “A request.” I leaned close. “Anything.” Another rattling breath. “Leave this world … a better place than how you found it.” And as its chest rose and stopped altogether, as its breath escaped in one last sigh, I understood why the Suriel had come to help me, again and again. Not just for kindness … but because it was a dreamer. And it was the heart of a dreamer that had ceased beating inside that monstrous chest. Its sudden silence echoed into my own. I laid my head on its chest, on that now-silent vault of bone, and wept.

Thou grievest where no grief should be! thou speak'st Words lacking wisdom! for the wise in heart Mourn not for those that live, nor those that die. Nor I, nor thou, nor any one of these, Ever was not, nor ever will not be, For ever and for ever afterwards. All, that doth live, lives always! To man's frame As there come infancy and youth and age, So come there raisings-up and layings-down Of other and of other life-abodes, Which the wise know, and fear not. This that irks—Thy sense-life, thrilling to the elements—Bringing thee heat and cold, sorrows and joys, 'Tis brief and mutable! Bear with it, Prince! As the wise bear. The soul which is not moved, The soul that with a strong and constant calm Takes sorrow and takes joy indifferently, Lives in the life undying! That which is Can never cease to be; that which is not Will not exist. To see this truth of both Is theirs who part essence from accident, Substance from shadow. Indestructible, Learn thou! the Life is, spreading life through all; It cannot anywhere, by any means, Be anywise diminished, stayed, or changed. But for these fleeting frames which it informs With spirit deathless, endless, infinite, They perish. Let them perish, Prince! and fight! He who shall say, "Lo! I have slain a man!" He who shall think, "Lo! I am slain!" those both Know naught! Life cannot slay. Life is not slain! Never the spirit was born; the spirit shall cease to be never; Never was time it was not; End and Beginning are dreams! Birthless and deathless and changeless remaineth the spirit for ever; Death hath not touched it at all, dead though the house of it seems! Who knoweth it exhaustless, self-sustained, Immortal, indestructible,—shall such Say, "I have killed a man, or caused to kill?" Nay, but as when one layeth His worn-out robes away, And taking new ones, sayeth, "These will I wear to-day!" So putteth by the spirit Lightly its garb of flesh, And passeth to inherit A residence afresh. I say to thee weapons reach not the Life; Flame burns it not, waters cannot o'erwhelm, Nor dry winds wither it. Impenetrable, Unentered, unassailed, unharmed, untouched, Immortal, all-arriving, stable, sure, Invisible, ineffable, by word And thought uncompassed, ever all itself, Thus is the Soul declared! How wilt thou, then,—Knowing it so,—grieve when thou shouldst not grieve? How, if thou hearest that the man new-dead Is, like the man new-born, still living man—One same, existent Spirit—wilt thou weep? The end of birth is death; the end of death Is birth: this is ordained! and mournest thou, Chief of the stalwart arm! for what befalls Which could not otherwise befall? The birth Of living things comes unperceived; the death Comes unperceived; between them, beings perceive: What is there sorrowful herein, dear Prince?

Tub full, she stood back to regard the mound of ice. Already the heat of her home fought to melt it. A rap came again at the entrance, more like an impatient pounding, and she cursed. The clock showed her only a few minutes away from her torture. I need whoever it is to go away. She ran to the door and slid open the peek-a-boo slot. Familiar turquoise eyes peered back. “Little witch, little witch, let me come in,” he chanted in a gruff voice. A smile curled her lips. “Not by the wart on my chinny chin chin,” she replied. “And before you try huffing and puffing, Nefertiti herself spelled this door. So forget blowing it down.” “So open it then. I’ve got a lead I think on escapee number three.” A glance at the clock showed one minute left. “Um, I’m kind of in the middle of something. Can you come back in like half an hour?” “Why not just let me in and I’ll wait while you do your thing? I promise not to watch, unless you like an audience.” “I can’t. Please. Just go away. I promise I’ll let you in when you come back.” His eyes narrowed. “Open this door, Ysabel.” “No. Now go away. I’ll talk to you in half an hour.” She slammed the slot shut and only allowed herself a moment to lean against the door which shuddered as he hit it with a fist. She didn’t have time to deal with his frustration. The tickle in her toes started and she ran to the bathroom, dropping her robe as she moved. The fire erupted, and standing on the lava tile in her bathroom, she concentrated on breathing against the spiraling pain and flames. I mustn’t scream. Remy might still be there, listening. Why that mattered, she couldn’t have said, but it did help her focus for a short moment. But the punishment would not allow her respite. Flames licked up her frame, demolishing her thin underpants and she couldn’t help but scream as the agony tore through her body. Make it stop. Make it stop. Wishing, praying, pleading didn’t stop the torture. As the inferno consumed her, her ears roared with the snap of the fire and a glance in her mirror horrified her, for there she stood – a living pyre of fire. She closed her eyes against the brilliant heat, but that just seemed to amplify the pain. Her knees buckled, but she didn’t fall. Something clasped her and she moaned as she sensed more than saw Remy’s arms wrap around her waist. It had to be him. Who else was crazy enough to break down her door and interrupt? Forcing open her eyes, eyes that wanted to water but couldn’t as the heat dried up all moisture, she saw the flames, not picky about their choice her own nightmare, she knew enough to try and push him away with hands that glowed inferno bright. He wouldn’t budge, and he didn’t scream – just held her as the curse ran its course. Without being told, once the flames disappeared, he placed her in the ice bath, the shocking cold a welcome relief. Gasping from the pain, she couldn’t speak but remained aware of how he stroked her hair back from her face and how his arm rested around her shoulders, cradling her. “Oh, my poor little witch,” he murmured. “No wonder you’ve been hiding.” Teeth chattering as the cold penetrated her feverish limbs, she tried to reply. “Wh-what c-c-can I say? I’m h-h-hot.” -Remy & Ysabel

Do you like what you doth see . . . ?” said the voluptuous elf-maiden as she provocatively parted the folds of her robe to reveal the rounded, shadowy glories within. Frito’s throat was dry, though his head reeled with desire and ale. She slipped off the flimsy garment and strode toward the fascinated boggie unashamed of her nakedness. She ran a perfect hand along his hairy toes, and he helplessly watched them curl with the fierce insistent wanting of her. “Let me make thee more comfortable,” she whispered hoarsely, fiddling with the clasps of his jerkin, loosening his sword belt with a laugh. “Touch me, oh touch me,” she crooned. Frito’s hand, as though of its own will, reached out and traced the delicate swelling of her elf-breast, while the other slowly crept around her tiny, flawless waist, crushing her to his barrel chest. “Toes, I love hairy toes,” she moaned, forcing him down on the silvered carpet. Her tiny, pink toes caressed the luxuriant fur of his instep while Frito’s nose sought out the warmth of her precious elf-navel. “But I’m so small and hairy, and . . . and you’re so beautiful,” Frito whimpered, slipping clumsily out of his crossed garters. The elf-maiden said nothing, but only sighed deep in her throat and held him more firmly to her faunlike body. “There is one thing you must do for me first,” she whispered into one tufted ear. “Anything,” sobbed Frito, growing frantic with his need. “Anything!” She closed her eyes and then opened them to the ceiling. “The Ring,” she said. “I must have your Ring.” Frito’s whole body tensed. “Oh no,” he cried, “not that! Anything but . . . that.” “I must have it,” she said both tenderly and fiercely. “I must have the Ring!” Frito’s eyes blurred with tears and confusion. “I can’t,” he said. “I mustn’t!” But he knew resolve was no longer strong in him. Slowly, the elf-maiden’s hand inched toward the chain in his vest pocket, closer and closer it came to the Ring Frito had guarded so faithfully . .

#1 of 2 Leah munched another chip as she watched a couple on-screen race madly away from men with guns who were intent on killing them. She and Seth sat shoulder to shoulder on the sofa, both slumped down until they were practically lying on their backs. Seth had pulled the matching ottoman up against the sofa, so it really did feel as if they were lying in bed together, watching a movie. She slid him a covert glance. He had donned black cargo pants and a black T-shirt after his shower but had left his big feet bare. He had also left his hair loose. It now spilled over the back of the sofa in a glossy curtain, the thick wavy tresses still drying. He chuckled at something the male protagonist said. Leah smiled. She loved seeing him laugh. She didn’t think he did so as often as he should. Every once in a while, she noticed his gaze would slide to her legs. Her feet were propped on the ottoman close to his. The robe she had borrowed had parted just above her knees and fallen back, leaving most of her legs bare. And that pale flesh repeatedly drew Seth’s attention. She held the bag of chips out to him. Smiling, unaware that the faint golden light of desire illuminated his eyes, he poked his hand in and drew out a couple of chips. She smiled back, then returned her attention to the screen. The protagonists had at last made it to safety. They checked each other over for wounds, something both had miraculously escaped incurring in true Hollywood fashion. Then they fell into each other’s arms, finally giving in to the lust that had sparked between them ever since their first contentious meeting. Leah sighed as she watched them peel each other’s clothes off with eager hands. It made her want to do the same with Seth. Her body even began to respond as her imagination kicked in. “I miss sex.” The words were out of her mouth before she could question the wisdom of speaking them. “I do, too,” Seth confessed. She glanced over at him and found his eyes glued to the screen. More so since I met you. Her eyes widened when his voice sounded in her head. “Really?” “Yes.” The actors on-screen fell naked onto the bed and began to simulate sex, their moans and groans and cries of passion filling the room. “It’s natural to miss it,” he said matter-of-factly. “Nothing to feel guilty about.” “No. I mean, you really miss it more since you met me?” He froze. A look of dismay crossed his features as he cut her a glance. “I said that out loud?” “No. I heard it in my head.” Sh**. She grinned. “I heard that, too.” F**k.

Oh, my," said Nerissa, when she could speak. Juliet, smiling, murmured, "Would you just look at her." "I don't think we can help but look at her," murmured an urbane voice, and gasping, all three women turned to see Lucien standing in the doorway, arms crossed and his black eyes gleaming in the candlelight. He lifted his hand.  "Turn around, my dear," he said, giving a negligent little wave.  Her eyes huge, Amy slowly did as he asked, staring down at herself in awe and disbelief.  The gown, an open-robed saque of watered silk, shimmered with every movement, a vibrant purplish-blue in this light, a vivid emerald-green in that.  Its robed bodice open to show a stomacher of bright yellow satin worked with turquoise and green embroidery, it had tight sleeves ending in treble flounces just behind the elbow, which, combined with the chemise's triple tiers of lace, made Amy feel as though she had wings.  She smoothed her palms over the flounced and scalloped petticoats of royal blue silk, and then, with impulsive delight, threw back her head on a little laugh, extended her arms and spun on her toe, making gauzy sleeves, shining hair, and yards upon yards of shimmering fabric float in the air around her. Hannah, who did not think such behavior was quite appropriate, especially in front of a duke, frowned, but Lucien was trying hard to contain his amusement.  He couldn't remember the last time he'd made anyone so happy, and it touched something deep inside him that he'd long thought dead.  He exchanged a look of furtive triumph with Nerissa. "Oh!  Is it really me?" Amy breathed, reverently touching her sleeve and then raising wide, suddenly misty eyes to her small audience. "It is really you," Juliet said, smiling. "Only someone with your coloring could wear such bold shades and make them work for instead of against you," said Nerissa, coming forward to tie a black ribbon around Amy's neck.  "Lud, if I tried to wear those colors, I daresay they would overwhelm me!" "Speaking of overwhelmed . . ."  Amy turned to face the man who still lounged negligently in the doorway, his fingers trying, quite unsuccessfully, to rub away the little smile that tugged at his mouth.  "Your Grace, I don't know how to thank you," she whispered, dabbing away one tear, then another.  "No one has ever done anything like this for me before and I . . . I feel like a princess." "My dear girl.  Don't you know?"  His smile deepened and she saw what was almost a cunning gleam come into his enigmatic black eyes.  "You are a princess.  Now dry those tears and if you must thank me, do so by enjoying yourself tonight." "I will, Your Grace." "Yes," he said, on a note of finality.  "You will." And

Despite an icy northeast wind huffing across the bay I sneak out after dark, after my mother falls asleep clutching her leather Bible, and I hike up the rutted road to the frosted meadow to stand in mist, my shoes in muck, and toss my echo against the moss-covered fieldstone corners of the burned-out church where Sunday nights in summer for years Father Thomas, that mad handsome priest, would gather us girls in the basement to dye the rose cotton linen cut-outs that the deacon’s daughter, a thin beauty with short white hair and long trim nails, would stitch by hand each folded edge then steam-iron flat so full of starch, stiffening fabric petals, which we silly Sunday school girls curled with quick sharp pulls of a scissor blade, forming clusters of curved petals the younger children assembled with Krazy glue and fuzzy green wire, sometimes adding tissue paper leaves, all of us gladly laboring like factory workers rather than have to color with crayon stubs the robe of Christ again, Christ with his empty hands inviting us to dine, Christ with a shepherd's staff signaling to another flock of puffy lambs, or naked Christ with a drooping head crowned with blackened thorns, and Lord how we laughed later when we went door to door in groups, visiting the old parishioners, the sick and bittersweet, all the near dead, and we dropped our bikes on the perfect lawns of dull neighbors, agnostics we suspected, hawking our handmade linen roses for a donation, bragging how each petal was hand-cut from a pattern drawn by Father Thomas himself, that mad handsome priest, who personally told the Monsignor to go fornicate himself, saying he was a disgruntled altar boy calling home from a phone booth outside a pub in North Dublin, while I sat half-dressed, sniffing incense, giddy and drunk with sacrament wine stains on my panties, whispering my oath of unholy love while wiggling uncomfortably on the mad priest's lap, but God he was beautiful with a fine chiseled chin and perfect teeth and a smile that would melt the Madonna, and God he was kind with a slow gentle touch, never harsh or too quick, and Christ how that crafty devil could draw, imitate a rose petal in perfect outline, his sharp pencil slanted just so, the tip barely touching so that he could sketch and drink, and cough without jerking, without ruining the work, or tearing the tissue paper, thin as a membrane, which like a clean skin arrived fresh each Saturday delivered by the dry cleaners, tucked into the crisp black vestment, wrapped around shirt cardboard, pinned to protect the high collar.

The wonderful thing about Moab is that everything happens in a story-book setting, with illustrations by Maxfield Parrish and Wyeth and Joe Coll, and all the rest of them, whichever way you look. Imagine a blue sky—so clear-blue and pure that you can see against it the very feathers in the tails of wheeling kites, and know that they are brown, not black. Imagine all the houses, and the shacks between them, and the poles on which the burlap awnings hang, painted on flat canvas and stood up against that infinite blue. Stick some vultures in a row along a roof-top—purplish—bronze they’ll look between the tiles and sky. Add yellow camels, gray horses, striped robes, long rifles, and a searching sun-dried smell. And there you have El-Kerak, from the inside. From any point along the broken walls or the castle roof you can see for fifty miles over scenery invented by the Master-Artist, with the Jordan like a blue worm in the midst of yellow-and-green hills twiggling into a turquoise sea. The villains stalk on-stage and off again sublimely aware of their setting. The horses prance, the camels saunter, the very street-dogs compose themselves for a nap in the golden sun, all in perfect harmony with the piece. A woman walking with a stone jar on her head (or, just as likely, a kerosene can) looks as if she had just stepped out of eternity for the sake of the picture. And not all the kings and kaisers, cardinals and courtezans rolled into one great swaggering splurge of majesty could hold a candle to a ragged Bedouin chief on a flea-bitten pony, on the way to a small-town mejlis.

Prodigal son and older brother pg 30-31 "Better keep that robe clean. One spot and Dad will send you to the cleaners with it." "Some things you are supposed to know." "He'll take them back." "He will not. They were a gift. He wouldn't...would he?" Then the ex-prodigal leans over to snug the strings...He hears his father's voice...Overcome with fear, he reacts with a "Sorry, Dad" and turns and runs. Too many tasks. Keeping the robe spotless, ring positioned, sandals snug- who could meet such standards? Gift preservation begins to wear on the young man. He avoids the father he feels he can't please. He quits wearing the gifts he can't maintain. And he even longs for the simpler days of the pigpen. The rest of the story - found in Galatians. Thanks to some legalistic big brothers, Paul's readers had gone from grace receiving to law keeping. Gal. 1:6-7, 2:16

He cupped a hand around her wet head and rubbed his mouth over her sodden hair, her saturated lashes, the round tip of her nose. Just as he reached her lips, she turned her face away, and he growled in frustration, dying for the taste of her. He had never wanted anything so badly. For a split second he was tempted to hold her head in his hands and crush his mouth on hers. But that wouldn't satisfy him... he could not get what he wanted from her with force. Carrying Lottie from the shower-bath, he dried them both before the hearth in the bedroom and combed Lottie's long hair. The fine strands were dark amber when wet, turning to a pale shade of champagne when they were dry. Admiring the contrast of the shining locks against his velvet robe, he smoothed them with his fingers.

Between the palaces of the knights and those that served them; the convents, the elegant homes belonging to officers of the Church and the town; between the bakehouse and the shops of the craftsmen, the arsenals and magazines, the warehouses, the homes of merchants and courtesans, Italian, Spanish, Greek; past the painted shrines and courtyards scraped from pockets of earth with their bright waxy green carob trees, a fig, a finger of vine, a blue and orange pot of dry, dying flowers and a tethered goat bleating in a swept yard, padded the heirs of this rock, this precious knot in the trade of the world. Umber-skinned, grey-eyed, barefoot and robed as Arabs with the soft, slurring dialect that Dido and Hannibal spoke, they slipped past the painted facades to their Birgu of fishermen's huts and blank, Arab-walled houses or to sleep, curled in the shade, with the curs in a porch.

You will not leave?” Alistair asked when she emerged, drying her wet fingers against her robes. “Your room?” “The castle.” Ana shook her head and smiled. “No. This is my home, Alistair.” She kissed his cheek and guided him to the door. “Meet me in the library once you’ve freshened.

Louisa turned to comply and felt his hand stroke down over her derriere and finish with a soft pat. There had been affection in that caress, also possessiveness and some male appreciation. “You like my bottom.” He paused in the act of toweling off his stomach, his smile sweet and masculine. “I adore your bottom. I am also more than fond of your derriere.” Bottom—a cavalryman’s term for grit, staying power, or heart. Louisa discarded her night robe and climbed on the bed, watching as her naked husband banked the coals, blew out the candles, and pushed the hearth screen right up next to the fire. “Husband? I like your bottom too.” He prowled over to the bed and climbed onto the mattress. “One suspected this was the case. I rejoice to hear it, though.” “I wouldn’t dissemble about something so important.” She expected him to come back with another dry retort, but instead he spooned his body around her, laced his fingers with hers, and kissed her shoulder. And that was answer enough. ***

A blur of movement, Hunter threw the fur onto the riverbank and waded toward her. She couldn’t touch bottom and, despite the desperate pumping of her arms and legs, went under again, taking another draft of water. Grabbing her by the hair, he dragged her to the surface and nearer to shore so her feet touched. Bringing his face close to hers, he tightened his grip on her braid. “You will obey me.” He enunciated each word with venomous clarity. “Always. You are mine--Hunter’s woman, forever with no horizon. The next time you shake your head at me, I will beat you.” A measure of the water she had inhaled surged up her throat. Unable to stop herself, she choked and then coughed. The ejected spray hit him square in the eyes. He blinked and drew back, an incredulous look on his face. Loretta clamped her palms over her mouth, angling her arms to hide her breasts, her shoulders heaving. As angry as he appeared, she fully expected him to lay her flat with his fist. Instead he released her braid and caught hold of her arms. When she finally got her breath, he let go of her and returned to shore, his leather-clad legs cutting sparkling swaths through the water. After wiping his face dry with the buffalo robe, he turned to glower at her. He sat on his haunches and rested his corded forearms on his knees. Glancing upstream and down, he said, “Your wooden walls are far away, Yellow Hair. If you try to slip away, this Comanche will find you.” Until that moment, the thought of swimming off hadn’t occurred to her. She shot a glance over her shoulder at the swift current. If only she had clothes… “You do not make like a fish so good. Save this Comanche much trouble, eh?” She thought she detected laughter in his voice, but when she looked back at him, his gaze, blue-black and piercing, was as unreadable as ever. He studied her for several endless seconds. She wondered what he was thinking and decided, from the gleam in his eye, that she didn’t want to find out.

Do you sleep?” Warrior asked. Hunter jerked and peered at his brother through the silvery gloom. “No, tah-mah, I do not sleep.” Warrior spread his buffalo robe and sat down, bracing his arms on his bent knees. Contemplating the darkness, he said, “You are no longer one with us.” Something hard and cold turned over in Hunter’s stomach. Was his turmoil so apparent? “I love the People, Warrior.” “I know that. But you are no longer one with us.” Warrior toyed with the fringe on his moccasin. “Perhaps that is not a bad thing. The People will soon go the way of the wind.” He sighed and grew pensive. “We’re outnumbered, Hunter. Though we fight with all our strength, we’ll never win. When the war between the tosi tivo ends, their soldiers will return and drive us back into the wastelands. Hundreds and hundreds will be killed, until only a few of us remain.” Hunter knew what Warrior said was true, but admitting it wasn’t easy. “For now, Warrior, the People prevail.” “For now.” Warrior swallowed and lowered his gaze. “I have great love for you, tah-mah. If you leave me, my heart will be laid upon the ground. But it is time that you fulfill the last part of the prophecy.” Hunter’s mouth went dry. He fixed his attention on the stars. “Someone must preserve the ways of the People,” Warrior rasped, “someone who will sing our songs and teach our ways. Unless you do that, all that we are will be lost. You must go get your woman and take her far away into the west lands where this war does not reach.” Warrior’s voice shook with emotion. “To a new place, Hunter. You know the words of the song.

He found Loretta awake when he entered his lodge. She was sitting up in bed, raking her fingers through her tangled hair. When she saw him, she averted her face, still angry, if the glint in her eyes was any indication. At first Hunter tried ignoring Loretta’s glares. After feeding her a breakfast of dried fruit and some of his mother’s flat white bread, he took her to visit Amy. After that he retrieved her satchel from Maiden’s lodge and escorted her down to the river. Instead of bathing, which would have required the removal of her clothing in his presence, Loretta washed her hair and scrubbed her face. En route back to his lodge, she refused to look at him and didn’t respond when he spoke to her. When she was still treating him to frigid silence long after the midday meal was over, Hunter’s patience snapped. They were sitting in his lodge on buffalo robes, she on one side of the room, he on the other, the silence so thick it suffocated him. “You can make war with your eyes for a moon and win no battles. I grow tired of your anger, Blue Eyes.” She lifted her small nose in the air and refused to look at him. Her hair had dried in a wild tangle of ringlets that wreathed her head in gold. Frustrated, Hunter clenched his teeth. Whether she realized it yet or not, she no longer feared him as she once had. A frightened woman didn’t push like this. “You will tell me of this anger that burns within you, eh?” “As if you don’t know!” He propped his elbows on his bent knees. Women. He’d never understand them.

Oy!” bellowed Ron, finally losing patience and sticking his head out of the window, “I am a prefect and if one more snowball hits this window — OUCH!” He withdrew his head sharply, his face covered in snow. “It’s Fred and George,” he said bitterly, slamming the window behind him. “Gits . . .” Hermione returned from Hagrid’s just before lunch, shivering slightly, her robes damp to the knees. “So?” said Ron, looking up when she entered. “Got all his lessons planned for him?” “Well, I tried,” she said dully, sinking into a chair beside Harry. She pulled out her wand and gave it a complicated little wave so that hot air streamed out of the tip; she then pointed this at her robes, which began to steam as they dried out. “He wasn’t even there when I arrived, I was knocking for at least half an hour. And then he came stumping out of the forest —” Harry groaned. The Forbidden Forest was teeming with the kind of creatures most likely to get Hagrid the sack. “What’s he keeping in there? Did he say?” asked Harry. “No,” said Hermione miserably. “He says he wants them to be a surprise. I tried to explain about Umbridge, but he just doesn’t get it. He kept saying nobody in their right mind would rather study knarls than chimaeras — oh I don’t think he’s got a chimaera,” she added at the appalled look on Harry and Ron’s faces, “but that’s not for lack of trying from what he said about how hard it is to get eggs. . . .

I hadn't known what to expect as I entered the ring of white trees- tall and straight as pillars- but it was not the tall, thin veiled figure in dark tattered robes. Its hunched back facing me. I could count the hard knobs of its spine poking through the thin fabric. Spindly, scabby gray arms clawed at the snare with yellowed, cracked fingernails. ... Then slowly, it turned to me, the dark veil draped over its bald head, blowing in a phantom breeze. A face that looked like it had been crafted from dried, weatherworn bone, its skin either forgotten or discarded, a lipless mouth and too-long teeth held by blackened gums, slitted holes for nostrils, and eyes... eyes that were nothing more than swirling pits of milky white- the white of death, the white of sickness, the white of clean-picked corpses. Peeking above the ragged neck of its dark robes was a body of veins and bones, as dried and solid and horrific as the texture of its face. It let go of the snare, and its too-long fingers clicked against each other as it studied me.

Of course you did not practice sitting meditation all day when you entered the temple. For months and sometimes years you had to take care of the cows, collect dry twigs and leaves, carry water, pound rice, and collect wood for the fire. Every time my mother came to visit from our village, which was far away, she would regard these things as being the challenges of the first stage of practice. At first my mother was concerned for my health, but as I grew healthier, she stopped worrying about me. As for me, I knew that these were not challenges — they were themselves the practice. If you enter this life you will see for yourself. If there was no taking care of the cows, no collecting of twigs and leaves, no carrying water, no growing potatoes, then there would no means for the practice of meditation.

Baptism's power doesn't stop when the water dries. God preaches in your baptism every day. When the bullies and demons return, remind Jesus and yourself you are his. When you want to slink into the shadows, God says, 'You are robed in Christ.' When you feel shackled by your past, God calls you to the future he opened at the font. Whenever you're insulted or falsely accused, hear God's declaration: 'Whoever has died [in baptism] is justified from sin' (Rom 6:7). When you're fearful, call on the Spirit, and he will give you words to speak. When a murderous mob surrounds you, remember your baptism is fulfilled in martyrdom. You are what God says you are, not what you feel. Consider yourself to be who baptism says you are. Whatever happens, you are in your Father's love. Trust him. Stay loyal. Don't 'melt like water' (Josh 7:5). Plunged in God's water, you become God's water. Imitate the fish. Live in the water, and be God's rain on dry ground, God's flood again the wicked. Be God's water, for nothing is more powerful than water.

He hurt you. If I had been here then… I would tear him apart with my bare hands if he were still here, Maggie. Believe that.” She trembled, then nodded slowly. “I… do.” The duke nodded. “Good.” Abruptly his face changed. An expression of shock came over him. She looked around the room, confused, then realized he had glanced down at her gown. And in that moment, Maggie realized she had let go of the robe. It hung open, revealing the plane nightdress beneath. Which would not have been so terrible had it not been so thin, so pale white, so clinging. It clung to every curve. She clutched the robe, pulling it closed quickly, but she knew it was too late. “Good God, Maggie,” the duke said, hoarsely. “Tell me you are not…” He met her eyes. “Tell me I am being foolish. I am a man. I know little of such things. I am sorry to have even dared to look at you in such a way. I must be mistaken. But…Tell me, truly, am I mistaken?” Maggie’s throat was dry. She felt frozen in place. Unable to even shake her head, though she wished to. Then he took a step forward, towards her, and she let out a little cry—her arms raising protectively, instinctively.

Cassilda: (speaking to herself) We strain our ears for the sound of love, but must all mothers bear the horror of seeing their Children grow from wonderful possibility to grim reality? Stranger: (Stands mutely in the shadows, his hands folding across his chest) Cassilda: If only we could stay a moment behind the veil of time, and live in that moment of indecision. Stranger: (Whispers so Cassilda cannot hear) Existence is decision. (...) [Te Child appears before the closed curtain] 1 Te Child: I am not the Prologue, nor the Afterword; call me the Prototaph. My role is this: to tell you it is now too late to close the book or quit the theatre. You already thought you should have done so earlier, but you stayed. How harmless it all is! No definite principles are involved, no doctrines promulgated in these pristine pages, no convictions outraged…but the blow has fallen, and now it is too late. And shall I tell you where the sin lies? It is yours. You listened to us; and all the say you stay to see the Sign. Now you are ours, or, since the runes also run backwards, we are yours…forever. (...) Along the shore the cloud waves break, The twin suns sink behind the lake, The shadows lengthen In Carcosa. Strange is the night where black stars rise, And strange moons circle through the skies But stranger still is Lost Carcosa. Songs that the Hyades shall sing, Where flap the tatters of the King, Must die unheard in Dim Carcosa. Song of my soul, my voice is dead; Die thou, unsung, as tears unshed Shall dry and die in Lost Carcosa. (...) [As the gong continues to strike, everyone begins to unmask. There are murmurs and gestures of surprise, real or polite, as identities are recognized or revealed. Ten there is a wave of laugher. The music becomes louder and increases in tempo.] Camilla: You, sir, should unmask. Stranger: Indeed? Camilla: Indeed, it’s time. We have all laid aside disguise but you. Stranger: I wear no mask. Camilla: No mask? No mask! Stranger: I, I am the Pallid Mask itself. I, I am the Phantom of Truth. I came from Alar. My star is Aldebaran. Truth is our invention; it is our weapon of war. And see–by this sign we have conquered, and the siege of good and evil is ended… § [On the horizon, the towers of Carcosa begin to glow] Noatalba: (Pointing) Look, look! Carcosa, Carcosa is on fire! (...) The King: Te Phantom of ruth shall be laid. Te scalloped tattersof Te King must hide Haita forever. As for thee, Yhtill– All: No! No, no! Te King: And as for thee, we tell you this; it is a fearful thing to fall into the hands of the living god. (...) Te Stranger falls, and everyone else sinks slowly to the ground after him. Te King can now be seen, although only faintly. He stands in state upon the balcony. He has no face, and is twice as tall as a man. He wears painted shows under his tattered, fantastically colored robes, and a streamer of silk appears to fall from the pointed tip of his hood. Behind his back he holds inverted a torch with a turned and jeweled shaft, which emits smoke, but no light. At times he appears to be winged; at others, haloed. These details are for the costumier; at no point should Te King be sufficiently visible to make themall out. Behind him, Carcosa and the Lake of Hali have vanished. Instead, there appears at his back a huge sculptured shield, in shape suggesting a labrys of onyx, upon which the Yellow Sign is chased in gold. Te rest of the stage darkens gradually, until, at the end, it is lit only by the decomposed body of the Stranger, phosphorescing bluely.]

I’ve always said I didn’t want an ordinary life. Nothing average or mundane for me. But as I stared at the rather ample naked derriere wiggling two inches from my face today, I realized I should have been more specific with my goals. Definitely not ordinary, but not exactly what I had in mind. The Texas-flag tattoo emblazoned across the left cheek waved at me as she shifted her weight from foot to foot. The flag was distorted and stretched, as was the large yellow rose on the right cheek, both tattoos dotted with dimples and pock marks. An uneven script scrawled out “The Yellow Rose of Texas” across the top of her rump. Her entire bridal party—her closest friends and relatives, mind you—had left her high and dry. They’d stormed off the elevator as I tried to enter it, a flurry of daffodil-yellow silk, spouting and sputtering about their dear loved one, Tonya the bride. “That’s it! We’re done!” They sounded off in a chorus of clucking hens. “We ain’t goin’ back in there. She can get ready on her own!” “Yeah, she can get ready on her own!” “Known her since third grade and she’s gonna talk to me like that?” “Third grade? She’s my first cousin. I’ve known her since the day she was born. She’s always been that way. I don’t know why y’all acting all surprised.” I felt more than a little uneasy about what all this meant for our schedule. The ceremony was supposed to start in fifteen minutes. The bride should have already been downstairs and loaded in the carriage to make her way to the hotel’s beach. My unease grew to panic when I knocked on Tonya’s door and she opened it clad only in a skimpy little satin robe. “Honey, you’re supposed to be dressed and downstairs already.” I tried to say it as sweetly as possible, but I’m sure my panic came through. My Southern accent kicked in thick, which usually only happens when I’m panicked or frustrated. Or pissed. Or drunk. “Do you think I don’t know that?” she asked, arching a perfectly drawn-on eyebrow. “Do you think somehow when I booked this wedding and had invitations printed and planned the entire damned event, I somehow didn’t realize what time the ceremony started? And just who the hell are you anyway?” Well, alrighty then. Obviously this was going to be a fun day. “Um, I’m Tyler Warren. I’m assisting Lillian with your wedding today.” “Fine. Those bitches left me with my nails wet.” She held up both hands to show me the glossy, fresh manicure. “How the hell am I supposed to get dressed with wet nails?” she asked, arching both eyebrows now and glaring at me like I was somehow responsible for this. “Oh.” My mind spun with the limited time frame I had available, the amount of clothing she still needed to put on, and the amount of time it would take to get her in the carriage and to the ceremony. “Give me just a second to let Lillian know we’ll be down shortly.” I smiled what I hoped was my sweetest smile and stepped backward into the hallway. She slammed the door as I frantically dialed Lillian’s cell. “You’d better be calling to tell me she is in the carriage and on her way,” Lillian said. “It is hotter than Hades out here. I have several people looking like they’re about to faint, and I may possibly dunk a cranky, tuxedoed five-year-old

Over the white robe of faith the soul puts on forthwith that of the second color, a green coat,9 emblem of the virtue of hope, by which it is delivered and protected from its second enemy, the world. The freshness of a living hope in God fills the soul with such energy and resolution, with such aspirations after the things of eternal life, that all this world seems to it—as indeed it is—in comparison with that which it hopes for, dry, withered, dead, and worthless. The soul now denudes itself of the garments and trappings of the world, by setting the heart upon nothing that is in it, and hoping for nothing that is, or may be, in it, living only in the hope of everlasting life. And, therefore, when the heart is thus lifted up above the world, the world cannot touch it or lay hold of it, nor even see it. 8. The soul then, thus

Many garbed themselves appropriately for their impending transformation into angels by purchasing the “White Muslin for Ascension Robes” advertised in Bowery dry-goods stores.