Eagle Pictures With Quotes

Man's hope can paint a purple picture, can transform a soaring vulture into a noble eagle or moaning dove.

I'm hip to their game, hip to the science of war Propoganda makes me fight but what am I fightin for? My way of life? Beans and rice? Give and take, less or more? See through the eyes of the poor, plus I'm black to the core Ignorance is on tour bookin stadiums and more The days of hitler painted pictures patriotic before You raise your flag on a land snatched from bald eagles claw, and stamp the symbol on your currency to finance your war. I'm sayin no. Not in my name. Not in my life. Not by my hands. That ain't my fight. Not in my name. You wage your war against terrorists and violence, and try to wave your guns and fear us all into silence. NO.

If life gives you a passport size dream, don't frame it... Order for a reprint... Go for the bigger picture of you! You deserve a bigger and bright image of you... Go and soar like an eagle!

Happy the writer who, passing by characters that are boring, disgusting, shocking in their mournful reality, approaches characters that manifest the lofty dignity of man, who from the great pool of daily whirling images has chosen only the rare exceptions, who has never once betrayed the exalted turning of his lyre, nor descended from his height to his poor, insignificant brethren, and, without touching the ground, has given the whole of himself to his elevated images so far removed from it. Twice enviable is his beautiful lot: he is among them as in his own family; and meanwhile his fame spreads loud and far. With entrancing smoke he has clouded people's eyes; he has flattered them wondrously, concealing what is mournful in life, showing them a beautiful man. Everything rushes after him, applauding, and flies off following his triumphal chariot. Great world poet they name him, soaring high above all other geniuses in the world, as the eagle soars above the other high fliers. At the mere mention of his name, young ardent hearts are filled with trembling, responsive tears shine in all eyes...No one equals him in power--he is God! But such is not the lot, and other is the destiny of the writer who has dared to call forth all that is before our eyes every moment and which our indifferent eyes do not see--all the stupendous mire of trivia in which our life in entangled, the whole depth of cold, fragmented, everyday characters that swarm over our often bitter and boring earthly path, and with the firm strength of his implacable chisel dares to present them roundly and vividly before the eyes of all people! It is not for him to win people's applause, not for him to behold the grateful tears and unanimous rapture of the souls he has stirred; no sixteen-year-old girl will come flying to meet him with her head in a whirl and heroic enthusiasm; it is not for him to forget himself in the sweet enchantment of sounds he himself has evoked; it is not for him, finally, to escape contemporary judgment, hypocritically callous contemporary judgment, which will call insignificant and mean the creations he has fostered, will allot him a contemptible corner in the ranks of writers who insult mankind, will ascribe to him the quality of the heroes he has portrayed, will deny him heart, and soul, and the divine flame of talent. For contemporary judgment does not recognize that equally wondrous are the glasses that observe the sun and those that look at the movement of inconspicuous insect; for contemporary judgment does not recognize that much depth of soul is needed to light up the picture drawn from contemptible life and elevate it into a pearl of creation; for contemporary judgment does not recognize that lofty ecstatic laughter is worthy to stand beside the lofty lyrical impulse, and that a whole abyss separates it from the antics of the street-fair clown! This contemporary judgment does not recognize; and will turn it all into a reproach and abuse of the unrecognized writer; with no sharing, no response, no sympathy, like a familyless wayfarer, he will be left alone in the middle of the road. Grim is his path, and bitterly he will feel his solitude.

When we focus so hard on the tiny details, we leave ourselves open to miss the bigger picture. Details matter and so does an eagles point of view.

My grief is my castle, which like an eagle's nest is built high up on the mountain peaks among the clouds; nothing can storm it. From it I fly down into reality to seize my prey; but i do not remain down there, I bring it home with me, and this prey is a picture I weave into the tapestries of my palace. There I live as one dead. I immerse everything I have experienced in a baptism of forgetfulness unto an eternal remembrance. Everything finite and accidental is forgotten and erased. Then I sit like an old man, grey-haired and thoughtful, and explain the pictures in a voice as soft as a whisper; and at my side a child sits and listens, although he remembers everything before I tell it.

Dream big and see further! Sharpen your eyes; you have the eagle’s sight. Quicken your steps; you have the horse’s limbs. All that is a burden for others would be beaten several times by you!

And then you leave the memories behind. When you look at the pictures It seems like it was always fun. But you know that in that photos everyone was actually broken deep down inside. Wounded. Bleeding. Crying and yelling at the same time. They were some kinda wounded birds... Eagles, wrens... When you remind that, you became some kinda phoenix. And life goes on like this. like an uncomplete poem.

Reyna had always pictured him as solid white with dove-like wings, but Pegasus’s coat was rich brown, mottled with red and gold around the muzzle – which Hedge claimed were the marks where the stallion had emerged from the blood and ichor of his beheaded mother, Medusa. Pegasus’s wings were the colours of an eagle’s – gold, white, brown and rust – which made him look much more handsome and regal than plain white. He was the colour of all horses, representing all his offspring.

Man’s hope can paint a purple picture, can transform a soaring vulture into a noble eagle or a moaning dove.

...that's what we're made of, that moaning rocking fucking dick-in-cunt motion built the minutes, the hours of every day. Our bones and muscles grew into this rhythm. The Kin sold us before we could walk—baby toys. So now it's the way the earth moves under our feet, every step we take. The sun fucks us, the moon fucks us, the wind and the trees, chemistry and the Eagles, 1+1 and Jesus Christ, everything has always been about fucking, sex waiting behind every moment, ready to unravel the picture of This Is My Happy Normal Life.

I found myself whirling around and falling down and down. My life memories were spinning around me, flashing like thousands of brilliant pictures with bright cascading colors like a thousand tiny kaleidoscopes...

. . . to my surprise I began to know what The Language was about, not just the part we were singing now but the whole poem. It began with the praise and joy in all creation, copying the voice of the wind and the sea. It described sun and moon, stars and clouds, birth and death, winter and spring, the essence of fish, bird, animal, and man. It spoke in what seemed to be the language of each creature. . . . It spoke of well, spring, and stream, of the seed that comes from the loins of a male creature and of the embryo that grows in the womb of the female. It pictured the dry seed deep in the dark earth, feeling the rain and the warmth seeping down to it. It sang of the green shoot and of the tawny heads of harvest grain standing out in the field under the great moon. It described the chrysalis that turns into a golden butterfly, the eggs that break to let out the fluffy bird life within, the birth pangs of woman and of beast. It went on to speak of the dark ferocity of the creatures that pounce upon their prey and plunge their teeth into it--it spoke in the muffled voice of bear and wolf--it sang the song of the great hawks and eagles and owls until their wild faces seemed to be staring into mine, and I knew myself as wild as they. It sang the minor chords of pain and sickness, of injury and old age; for a few moments I felt I was an old woman with age heavy upon me.

My sorrow is my knight’s castle, which lies like an eagle’s eyrie high up upon the mountain peaks among the clouds. No one can take it by storm. From it I fly down into reality and seize my prey; but I do not remain down there, I bring my prey home; and this prey is a picture I weave into the tapestries in my palace. Then I live as one dead. In the baptism of forgetfulness I plunge everything experienced into the eternity of remembrance; everything finite and contingent is forgotten and erased. Then I sit thoughtful like an old man, grey-headed, and in a low voice, almost a whisper, explain the pictures; and by my side a child sits and listens, even though he remembers everything before I tell it.

It is remarkable that circumcision, which is invariably practiced by thE Mahometans, and forms a distinguishing rite of their faith, to which all proselytes must conform, is neither mentioned in the Koran nor the Sonna. It seems to have been a general usage in Arabia, tacitly adopted from the Jews, and is even said to have been prevalent throughout the East before the time of Moses. It is said that the Koran forbids the making likenesses of any living thing, which has prevented the introduction of portrait-painting among Mahometans. The passage of the Koran, however, which is thought to contain the prohibition, seems merely an echo of the second commandment, held sacred by Jews and Christians, not to form images or pictures for worship. One of Mahomet's standards was a black eagle. Among the most distinguished Moslem ornaments of the Alhambra at Granada is a fountain supported by lions carved of stone, and some Moslem monarchs have had their effigies stamped on their coins.

Ruby saw the walls of her own soul, saw things sparkling there she had never thought to look upon. Pictures of women, old, ancient with eyes like eagles, hand with love burning. She saw Maggie. There were sparkling lights lining the walls, gemstones gleaming.

Ruby saw the walls of her own soul, saw things sparkling there she had never thought to look upon. Pictures of women, old, ancient with eyes like eagles, hands with love burning. She saw Maggie. There were sparkling lights lining the walls, gemstones gleaming.

when i was little i used to save my baths for later. id come back to them before bed and sit in the old cold bathwater and run cool water out of the shower and pretend i was hiding in vietnam and it was raining. i was young when i did this and am not sure why i was thinking about vietnam or what i knew about it. i did this when i was older too. im thinking about doing it again tonight. you are running out of time to get everything you want exactly the way you want it. (this is a joke.) most things are going to be left unsaid. (this is not a joke.) a few weeks ago my mom sent me an email with pictures of eagles that said “how about these eagles.” she visits my cousin in jail once a month. that seems like a lot for an aunt. he is in jail because he shot his girlfriend in the face but they are still together. she told me once that she knew in her heart that he is guilty but now she claims she never said that.

In his youth, Ser Eustace Osgrey must have been the very picture of chivalry, tall and broad and handsome. Time and grief had worked their will on him, but he was still unbent, a big-boned, broad-shouldered, barrel-chested man with features as strong and sharp as some old eagle. His close-cropped hair had gone white as milk, but the thick mustache that hid his mouth remained an ashy grey. His eyebrows were the same color, the eyes beneath a paler shade of grey, and full of sadness. They

I hear the wind call my name The sound that leads me home again It sparks up the fire - a flame that still burns To you I'll always return I know the road is long But where you are is home Wherever you stay-I'll find the way I'll run like the river-I'll follow the sun I'll fly like an eagle To where I belong I can't stand the distance I can't dream alone I can't wait to see you-yes I'm on my way home Now I know it's true My every road leads to you And in the hour of darkness, Your light gets me through You run like the river-you shine like the sun Yeah You fly like an eagle-yeah you are the one I seen every sunset and with all that I've learned Oh, it's to you, I will always, always, return

My first great insight happened when I realised how much humankind had lost. Once, men and women were able to turn themselves into eagles and fly immense distances. They communed with rivers and mountains and received wisdom from them. They felt the turning of stars inside their own minds. My contemporaries did not understand this. They were all enamoured with the idea of progress and believed that whatever was new must be superior to what was old. As if merit was a function of chronology! But it seemed to me that the wisdom of the ancients could not have simply vanished. Nothing simply vanishes. It's not actually possible. I pictured it as a sort of energy flowing out of the world and I thought this energy must be going somewhere. That was when I realised that there must be other places, other worlds. And so I set myself to find them.

I say, it sounds like some dangerous psychotic killer wrote this, and this buttoned-down schizophrenic could probably go over the edge at any moment in the working day and stalk from office to office with an Armalite AR-180 carbine gas-operated semiautomatic. My boss just looks at me. The guy, I say, is probably at home every night with a little rattail file, filing a cross into the tip of every one of his rounds. This way, when he shows up to work one morning and pumps a round into his nagging, ineffectual, petty, whining, butt-sucking, candy-ass boss, that one round will split along the filed grooves and spread open the way a dumdum bullet flowers inside you to blow a bushel load of your stinking guts out through your spine. Picture your gut chakra opening in a slow-motion explosion of sausage-casing small intestine. My boss takes the paper out from under my nose. Go ahead, I say, read some more. No really, I say, it sounds fascinating. The work of a totally diseased mind. And I smile. The little butthole-looking edges of the hole in my cheek are the same blue-black as a dog’s gums. The skin stretched tight across the swelling around my eyes feels varnished. My boss just looks at me. Let me help you, I say. I say, the fourth rule of fight club is one fight at a time. My boss looks at the rules and then looks at me. I say, the fifth rule is no shoes, no shirts in the fight. My boss looks at the rules and looks at me. Maybe, I say, this totally diseased fuck would use an Eagle Apache carbine because an Apache takes a thirty-shot mag and only weighs nine pounds. The Armalite only takes a five-round magazine. With thirty shots, our totally fucked hero could go the length of mahogany row and take out every vice-president with a cartridge left over for each director. Tyler’s words coming out of my mouth. I used to be such a nice person. I just look at my boss. My boss has blue, blue, pale cornflower blue eyes. The J and R 68 semiautomatic carbine also takes a thirty-shot mag, and it only weighs seven pounds. My boss just looks at me. It’s scary, I say. This is probably somebody he’s known for years. Probably this guy knows all about him, where he lives, and where his wife works and his kids go to school. This is exhausting, and all of a sudden very, very boring. And why does Tyler need ten copies of the fight club rules? What I don’t have to say is I know about the leather interiors that cause birth defects. I know about the counterfeit brake linings that looked good enough to pass the purchasing agent, but fail after two thousand miles. I know about the air-conditioning rheostat that gets so hot it sets fire to the maps in your glove compartment. I know how many people burn alive because of fuel-injector flashback. I’ve seen people’s legs cut off at the knee when turbochargers start exploding and send their vanes through the firewall and into the passenger compartment. I’ve been out in the field and seen the burned-up cars and seen the reports where CAUSE OF FAILURE is recorded as "unknown.” No, I say, the paper’s not mine. I take the paper between two fingers and jerk it out of his hand. The edge must slice his thumb because his hand flies to his mouth, and he’s sucking hard, eyes wide open. I crumble the paper into a ball and toss it into the trash can next to my desk. Maybe, I say, you shouldn’t be bringing me every little piece of trash you pick up.

One of the most remarkable aspects of awe is its ability to help us feel more connected to others. Find a place where you can be alone and then use the A.W.E. Method while thinking of a person who has been most dear to you in your life. They may be living or passed away. Take time to create a clear picture of that person, maybe a particular memory or scene that captures their essence. Hold the image in your mind, give it your full attention. Wait the length of a full inhalation or maybe more than one, while you take time to appreciate this person. Imagine looking into their eyes. Consider what they mean to you, what you learned from them or how you grew as a result of knowing them. We can be in the moment while remembering. While you remember and feel, just remember and feel. Then, when you're ready, exhale fully and allow yourself a moment of awe.

Jamie was right too. Looking at this wanton damage, I could not avoid a mental picture of the process that had caused it. I tried not to imagine the muscular arms raised, spread-eagled and tied, ropes cutting into wrists, the coppery head pressed hard against the post in agony, but the marks brought such images all too readily to mind. Had he screamed when it was done? I pushed the thought hastily away. I had heard the stories that trickled out of postwar Germany, of course, of atrocities much worse than this, but he was right; hearing is not at all the same as seeing. Involuntarily, I reached out, as though I might heal him with a touch and erase the marks with my fingers. He sighed deeply, but didn’t move as I traced the deep scars, one by one, as though to show him the extent of the damage he couldn’t see. I rested my hands at last lightly on his shoulders in silence, groping for words. He placed his own hand over mine, and squeezed lightly in acknowledgment of the things I couldn’t find to say.

Then gloom settled heavily upon him. Dantes was a man of great simplicity of thought, and without education; he could not, therefore, in the solitude of his dungeon, traverse in mental vision the history of the ages, bring to life the nations that had perished, and rebuild the ancient cities so vast and stupendous in the light of the imagination, and that pass before the eye glowing with celestial colors in Martin’s Babylonian pictures. He could not do this, he whose past life was so short, whose present so melancholy, and his future so doubtful. Nineteen years of light to reflect upon in eternal darkness! No distraction could come to his aid; his energetic spirit, that would have exalted in thus revisiting the past, was imprisoned like an eagle in a cage. He clung to one idea—that of his happiness, destroyed, without apparent cause, by an unheard-of fatality; he considered and reconsidered this idea, devoured it (so to speak), as the implacable Ugolino devours the skull of Archbishop Roger in the Inferno of Dante. Rage

The identification we feel towards the places where we live or were born can give us an anchor in a chaotic world and strengthen our connections to family, community, and the generations that preceded and will follow us. At their best, such feelings are a celebration of culture and all that comes with it in the form of literature, language, music, food, folktales, and even the wildlife we associate with our homelands--the eagle in America, for instance, or in the Czech Republic what's left of our lions, wolves, and bears. There is, however, a tipping point, where loyalty to one's own tribe curdles into resentment and hatred, then aggression towards others. That's when Fascism enters the picture, trailed by an assortment of woes, up to and including the Holocaust and global war. Because of that history, postwar statesmen established organizations to make it harder for deluded nationalists to trample on the rights of neighbors. These bodies include the United Nations--hence Truman's speech--and regional institutions in Europe, Africa, Asia, and the Americas.

Seven P.M. Half an hour to go until we started the laborious task of getting kitted up again. It would take us at least an hour. By the end no part of our bodies or faces would be visible. We would be transformed into cocooned figures, huddled, awaiting our fate. I reached into the top pouch of my backpack and pulled out a few crumpled pages wrapped in plastic. I had brought them just for this moment. Even the youths shall faint and be weary, and the young men shall utterly fall. But those who wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength. They shall mount up with wings like eagles. They shall run and not be weary. They shall walk and not faint. Isaiah 40:29-31. I felt that this was all I really had up here. There’s no one else with enough extra strength to keep you safe. It really is just you and your Maker. No pretense, no fluff--no plan B. Over the next twenty-four hours, there would be a one in six chance of dying. That focuses the mind. And the bigger picture becomes important. It was time to look death in the eye. Time to acknowledge that fear, hold the hand of the Almighty, and climb on. And those simple Bible verses would ring round my head for the next night and day, as we pushed on ever higher.

It had had a fragrant element, reminding him of a regular childhood experience, a memory that reverberated like the chimes of a prayer bell inside his head. For a few moments, he pictured the old Orthodox church that had dominated his remote Russian village. The bearded priest was swinging the elaborate incense-burner, suspended from gold-plated chains. It had been the same odour. Hadn’t it? He blinked, shook his head. He couldn’t make sense of that. He decided, with an odd lack of enthusiasm, that he’d imagined it. The effects of the war played tricks of the mind, of the senses. Looking over his shoulder, he counted all seven of his men as they emerged from the remnants of the four-storey civic office building. A few muddied documents were scattered on the ground, stamped with the official Nazi Party eagle, its head turned to the left, and an emblem he failed to recognize, but which looked to him like a decorative wheel, with a geometrical design of squares at its centre. Even a blackened flag had survived the bomb damage. Hanging beneath a crumbling windowsill, the swastika flapped against the bullet-ridden façade, the movement both panicky and defiant, Pavel thought. His men were conscripts. A few still wore their padded khaki jackets and mustard-yellow blouses. Most, their green field tunics and forage caps. All the clothing was lice-ridden and smeared with soft ash. Months of exposure to frozen winds had darkened their skins and narrowed their eyes. They’d been engaged in hazardous reconnaissance missions. They’d slept rough and had existed on a diet of raw husks and dried horsemeat. Haggard and weary now, he reckoned they’d aged well beyond their years.

God continually chooses the least likely to be chosen, the broken and the humble. It’s clearly His modus operandi. I’ve heard this response from people when I talk about this idea: “But how can we possibly get things done without big-time visionaries? Without massive plans to save the world?” Well, the Bible actually singles out a specific, heroic animal species to illustrate how to get things done. If you want to know how to do it, don’t go to the soaring eagle. Don’t go to the impressive, roaring lion, either. God may have a different idea: Go watch the ants, you lazy person. Watch what they do and be wise. Ants have no commander, no leader or ruler, but they store up food in the summer and gather their supplies at harvest. (Prov. 6:6–8 NCV) Yes. Watch how the ants operate. They get it. Sure enough, modern research shows just how remarkable ants are. They all know what to do and when to do it. They know when to rest, when to battle intruders, when to take care of their eggs, all of it. If there are too many ants foraging, just enough ants decide to quit foraging and take on other jobs. They know how to build massive anthills that are marvels of construction engineering. And they do it all without a hierarchy. They manage it all without management. They get it done without any one ant knowing the “big picture.” No ant is a superstar. No ant is irreplaceable. How they operate is still somewhat mysterious to science, but scientists do know that ants just use the information that’s in front of them, and then they respond. That’s it. That’s all the information an ant has. The Bible singles out a species wherein every individual member does whatever needs doing, just by responding to what’s in front of it. An ant can’t worry about the big blueprint. No ant actually has the big picture. If they each do their thing, the thing right in front of them, the big picture takes care of itself.

See how cruel the whites look. Their lips are thin, their noses sharp, their faces furrowed and dis­torted by folds. Their eyes have a staring expression; they are always seeking something. What are they seeking? The whites always want something; they are always uneasy and restless. We do not know what they want. We do not understand them. We think that they are mad." I asked him why he thought the whites were all mad. "They say that they think with their heads," he replied. "Why of course. What do you think with?" I asked him in surprise. "We think here," he said, indicating his heart. I fell into a long meditation. For the first time in my life, so it seemed to me, someone had drawn for me a picture of the real white man. It was as though until now I had seen nothing but sentimental, prettified color prints. This Indian had struck our vulnerable spot, unveiled a truth to which we are blind. I felt rising within me like a shapeless mist something unknown and yet deeply familiar. And out of this mist, image upon image detached itself: first Roman legions smashing into the cities of Gaul, and the keenly incised features of Julius Caesar, Scipio Africanus, and Pompey. I saw the Roman eagle on the North Sea and on the banks of the White Nile. Then I saw St. Augus­tine transmitting the Christian creed to the Britons on the tips of Roman lances, and Charlemagne's most glorious forced con­versions of the heathen; then the pillaging and murdering bands of the Crusading armies. With a secret stab I realized the hol­lowness of that old romanticism about the Crusades. Then fol­lowed Columbus, Cortes, and the other conquistadors who with fire, sword, torture, and Christianity came down upon even these remote pueblos dreaming peacefully in the Sun, their Father. I saw, too, the peoples of the Pacific islands decimated by firewater, syphilis, and scarlet fever carried in the clothes the missionaries forced on them. It was enough. What we from our point of view call coloniza­tion, missions to the heathen, spread of civilization, etc., has another face - the face of a bird of prey seeking with cruel in­tentness for distant quarry - a face worthy of a race of pirates and highwaymen. All the eagles and other predatory creatures that adorn our coats of arms seem to me apt psychological representatives of our true nature.

Renewed Strength But those who hope in the LORD will renew their strength. They will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not be faint. ISAIAH 40:31 NIV Several times throughout scripture, the Lord had the writers use the eagle as a comparison to His people. Moses, speaking to the children of Israel just before his death, draws a beautiful picture of the eagle caring for her young. He then compares it to the Lord’s leading in our lives. “He found them in a desert, a windy, empty land. He surrounded them and brought them up, guarding them as those he loved very much. He was like an eagle building its nest that flutters over its young. It spreads its wings to catch them and carries them on its feathers. The LORD alone led them, and there was no foreign god helping him” (Deuteronomy 32:10–12 NCV). Isaiah carries that metaphor a bit further in Isaiah 40. Women seem to be most involved in nurturing their children, and as a result we tire easily. Starting in verse 27 in the Isaiah passage, Isaiah wonders how God’s people can say that God is too busy or tired to care for His people. Instead he turns it around and says that even young men and children get tired. Only those who hope in the Lord will He carry on His wings, renewing their strength. Father, thank You for these comparisons that show Your loving heart in caring for Your children. I praise You for enabling us to do the work You have called us to do.

The beauty of inflections Or the beauty of innuendoes, The blackbird whistling Or just after. I begged him, “Miguel, write! Write something! Try!” He hadn’t written a thing for months, he rarely had his homework, and in class he couldn’t sit still. Miguel was immensely confident, capable of unusual, interesting thought, yet lazy and disorganized, angry and socially awkward. He often drew while other children wrote, but he wasn’t very good at it, and what he drew upset me. “May I see?” Miguel had scrunched his drawing in a corner of the page. It was typically sloppy and mostly indecipherable. There were scratchy men with limbs that didn’t bend, and there were guns and bombs. At least he had a bird, an eagle decently drawn, but even it was bleeding from the heart. There were blotches of explosion and lots of smudgy death, not the joyful ruin happy children draw, no flashing zigzag lines and gaudy color. “Oh, Miguel,” I sighed. “Why are your pictures always so violent?” He smiled, happy to be noticed, and continued drawing. We had had this conversation many times before. “It worries me, Miguel. It makes me feel like you’re not happy.” “Oh, I’m happy, Mr. Swope. I just like drawing violence, that’s all.” I knew him well enough to say, “This picture makes me think you’re going to grow up and be a mass murderer, Miguel, and I think you can do a little better than that.” Miguel giggled as he kept on drawing. “Do me a favor. Stop drawing and try to write. Write at least one way of looking at a tree, okay? You can do this.” “Okay,” he said, and cheerfully pulled out his writing folder. It grows big but he is small although big things are happening inside.    MIGUEL There are no euphonies here, and even though his poem isn’t perfectly clear, it has some interesting innuendo going on, a lot of promise. I gave it a Good!!! But it’s hard to know what I responded to—the poem itself, or the boy behind it; my student as he was, or as I wanted him to be.

John had recently appeared in the Stones’ Rock and Roll Circus in a supergroup that was an unlikely combination of him, Keith Richards, Eric Clapton, and Mitch Mitchell. It was unrehearsed, and the performance was just a bit of fun really. I was in my booth, way up in the gods, recording the sound for the show, and the area on the set where they were playing was obscured from my view. All was going well until I heard this extraordinary noise that sounded like someone stepping on the cat. I panicked, thinking that a piece of equipment might be malfunctioning, while peering at the screen trying to see if it was adversely affecting the guys onstage. All of a sudden a picture appeared of a small figure with a black bag over its head with a mic cable disappearing into it. It turned out to be Yoko, who had decided to contribute to the proceedings. How anyone could have considered her intrusion to be in any way musical is a complete mystery to me.

It was so dark in the attic that at first the girls could see little by candlelight. As soon as Nancy’s eyes became accustomed to the dimness, she groped her way forward in the cluttered room. “The attic is really very interesting,” she said, surveying the assortment of boxes and trunks. She called her friends’ attention to a fine old table which stood in one corner. “I believe Mr. March could sell that,” she said. “And look at these old-fashioned hatboxes!” She picked up one of the round, cardboard boxes. On it was the picture of a gay rural scene of early American life. “Let me see that!” exclaimed Bess, blowing off the dust. “Mr. March certainly could get something for this. Only yesterday Mother told me about a hatbox like this which brought a good price at an auction sale.” “There are at least a dozen here!” George declared excitedly. “All in good condition, too!” They were decorated with pictures of eagles and flowers, as well as scenes of American history. Two of them contained velvet bonnets with feather ornaments. “Girls, this attic may be a valuable find!” Nancy exclaimed.

Ada’s favorite photo was one of an eagle because the meaning behind the image was special to her. From that picture, she realized Nigeria and the United States of America (USA) had so much in common because the eagle is the national bird in the USA and the national animal in Nigeria.

Well, surely Kant was right in his claim that awareness is normally if not always awareness under concepts. Normally if not always my perception of the table is the perception of it under the concept of table, or the concept of item of furniture, or the concept of brown thing, or whatever. This part of Kant we should most definitely hang on to. We do interpret our experience conceptually. But notice that if we understand perception of an object as awareness of the object—rather than as awareness of a mental representation caused by the object—then it will not make sense to follow Kant in the further step he takes of thinking of concepts as rules for structuring the objects of our awareness. For now the objects of our awareness are not mental states but eagles and dogs. And eagles and dogs are already structured; they don’t await structuring by us...Concepts are not barriers between mind and reality but links. The concept of eagle is at one and the same time one of the concepts that I possess and one of the concepts that is satisfied by the thing I perceive, namely, an eagle. As I myself see the matter: to possess the concept of table is to grasp the property of being a table. If that is so, then properties are at one and the same time entities that we grasp and entities that external objects possess. They are the links. On this picture, how might God be gotten in mind? Notice that Kant’s use of the metaphor of boundary now no longer has applicability. We no longer have to suppose that the applicability of our concepts is confined to our intuitions. So one way we might get God in mind is by the use of definite descriptions. The expression, 'Creator of the universe' might pick God out; synonymously: 'The one who brought about all that might not have been.' And secondly, it may be that some human beings have had God in mind as that of which they were aware. For a possibility that we now have to take seriously is that human beings might sometimes have awareness of God.

Well, surely Kant was right in his claim that awareness is normally if not always awareness under concepts. Normally if not always my perception of the table is the perception of it under the concept of table, or the concept of item of furniture, or the concept of brown thing, or whatever. This part of Kant we should most definitely hang on to. We do interpret our experience conceptually. But notice that if we understand perception of an object as awareness of the object—rather than as awareness of a mental representation caused by the object—then it will not make sense to follow Kant in the further step he takes of thinking of concepts as rules for structuring the objects of our awareness. For now the objects of our awareness are not mental states but eagles and dogs. And eagles and dogs are already structured; they don’t await structuring by us...Concepts are not barriers between mind and reality but links. The concept of eagle is at one and the same time one of the concepts that I possess and one of the concepts that is satisfied by the thing I perceive, namely, an eagle. As I myself see the matter: to possess the concept of table is to grasp the property of being a table. If that is so, then properties are at one and the same time entities that we grasp and entities that external objects possess. They are the links. On this picture, how might God be gotten in mind? Notice that Kant’s use of the metaphor of boundary now no longer has applicability. We no longer have to suppose that the applicability of our concepts is confined to our intuitions. So one way we might get God in mind is by the use of definite descriptions. The expression, 'Creator of the universe' might pick God out; synonymously: 'The one who brought about all that might not have been.' And secondly, it may be that some human beings have had God in mind as that of which they were aware. For a possibility that we now have to take seriously is that human beings might sometimes have awareness of God.

it’s good etiquette to check with people before you post a photo of them, especially if you want to tag them in it. You probably curate your own pictures with an eagle eye, and it’s likely that others do the same, so give them the chance to say yea or nay.

Travel Bucket List 1. Have a torrid affair with a foreigner. Country: TBD. 2. Stay for a night in Le Grotte della Civita. Matera, Italy. 3. Go scuba diving in the Great Barrier Reef. Queensland, Australia. 4. Watch a burlesque show. Paris, France. 5. Toss a coin and make an epic wish at the Trevi Fountain. Rome, Italy. 6. Get a selfie with a guard at Buckingham Palace. London, England. 7. Go horseback riding in the mountains. Banff, Alberta, Canada. 8. Spend a day in the Grand Bazaar. Istanbul, Turkey. 9. Kiss the Blarney Stone. Cork, Ireland. 10. Tour vineyards on a bicycle. Bordeaux, France. 11. Sleep on a beach. Phuket, Thailand. 12. Take a picture of a Laundromat. Country: All. 13. Stare into Medusa’s eyes in the Basilica Cistern. Istanbul, Turkey. 14. Do NOT get eaten by a lion. The Serengeti, Tanzania. 15. Take a train through the Canadian Rockies. British Columbia, Canada. 16. Dress like a Bond Girl and play a round of poker at a casino. Montreal, Quebec, Canada. 17. Make a wish on a floating lantern. Thailand. 18. Cuddle a koala at Currumbin Wildlife Sanctuary. Queensland, Australia. 19. Float through the grottos. Capri, Italy. 20. Pose with a stranger in front of the Eiffel Tower. Paris, France. 21. Buy Alex a bracelet. Country: All. 22. Pick sprigs of lavender from a lavender field. Provence, France. 23. Have afternoon tea in the real Downton Abbey. Newberry, England. 24. Spend a day on a nude beach. Athens, Greece. 25. Go to the opera. Prague, Czech Republic. 26. Skinny dip in the Rhine River. Cologne, Germany. 27. Take a selfie with sheep. Cotswolds, England. 28. Take a selfie in the Bone Church. Sedlec, Czech Republic. 29. Have a pint of beer in Dublin’s oldest bar. Dublin, Ireland. 30. Take a picture from the tallest building. Country: All. 31. Climb Mount Fuji. Japan. 32. Listen to an Irish storyteller. Ireland. 33. Hike through the Bohemian Paradise. Czech Republic. 34. Take a selfie with the snow monkeys. Yamanouchi, Japan. 35. Find the penis. Pompeii, Italy. 36. Walk through the war tunnels. Ho Chi Minh, Vietnam. 37. Sail around Ha long Bay on a junk boat. Vietnam. 38. Stay overnight in a trulli. Alberobello, Italy. 39. Take a Tai Chi lesson at Hoan Kiem Lake. Hanoi, Vietnam. 40. Zip line over Eagle Canyon. Thunderbay, Ontario, Canada.

found that by copying the distinctive prints and scratches made by other animals we could gain a new power; here was a method of identifying with the other animal, taking on its expressive magic in order to learn of its whereabouts, to draw it near, to make it appear. Tracing the impression left by a deer’s body in the snow, or transferring that outline onto the wall of the cave: these are ways of placing oneself in distant contact with the Other, whether to invoke its influence or to exert one’s own. Perhaps by multiplying its images on the cavern wall we sought to ensure that the deer itself would multiply, be bountiful in the coming season…. All of the early writing systems of our species remain tied to the mysteries of a more-than-human world. The petroglyphs of pre-Columbian North America abound with images of prey animals, of rain clouds and lightning, of eagle and snake, of the paw prints of bear. On rocks, canyon walls, and caves these figures mingle with human shapes, or shapes part human and part Other (part insect, or owl, or elk.) Some researchers assert that the picture writing of native North America is not yet “true” writing, even where the pictures are strung together sequentially—as they are, obviously, in many of the rock inscriptions (as well as in the calendrical “winter counts” of the Plains tribes). For there seems, as yet, no strict relation between image and utterance. In a much more conventionalized pictographic system, like the Egyptian hieroglyphics (which first appeared during the First Dynasty, around 3000 B.C.E. and remained in use until the second century C.E.),4 stylized images of humans and human implements are still interspersed with those of plants, of various kinds of birds, as well as of serpents, felines, and other animals. Such pictographic systems, which were to be found as well in China as early as the fifteenth century B.C.E., and in Mesoamerica by the middle of the sixth century B.C.E., typically include characters that scholars have

I follow Sevro to Cassius’s room. The door is open. I feel anger toward Sevro for violating Cassius’s sanctum, but then I see the cramped room into which Cassius fit his huge life. On one wall his childhood, filled with moving pictures of Eagle Rest, Julian, his father, his brothers, his sisters, even his mother—all curly-haired and smiling. There are a few swordsmanship badges and mementos whose meaning will never now be known. A purple stone with flecks of gold. A chunk of metal the size of an apple. A carved length of wood. A large knife with an eagle-shaped pommel. On another wall hangs a House Mars pendant, surrounded by printed news clippings of my pack. Not just me, but Sevro, Screwface, Clown, Pebble, Virginia, even Pax. They are all happy moments, and it makes me sad that he couldn’t be there to share them with us. On the third wall are images of Lysander, Pytha, and Cassius through the years. But it’s the holoprojector that makes me stare. A loch floats in the air filled with two shivering boys while a wolflike creature slinks around its edges.

There’s not an inch of bare skin anywhere between his wrists and his shirtsleeves—it’s all Stars and Stripes, Bald Eagles, and passages from the Constitution.

In 1918, anti-German hysteria was sweeping Texas. Germans who showed insufficient enthusiasm in purchasing Liberty Bonds were publicly horsewhipped; bands of armed men broke into the homes of German families who were rumored to have pictures of the Kaiser on the walls; a State Council of Defense, appointed by the Governor, recommended that German (and all other foreign languages) be barred from the state forever. Hardly had Sam Johnson arrived in Austin in February, 1918, when debate began on House Bill 15, which would make all criticism, even a remark made in casual conversation, of America’s entry into the war, of America’s continuation in the war, of America’s government in general, of America’s Army, Navy or Marine Corps, of their uniforms, or of the American flag, a criminal offense punishable by terms of two to twenty-five years—and would give any citizen in Texas the power of arrest under the statute. With fist-waving crowds shouting in the House galleries above, legislators raged at the Kaiser and at Germans in Texas whom they called his “spies” (one legislator declared that the American flag had been hauled down in Fredericksburg Square and the German double eagle raised in its place) in an atmosphere that an observer called a “maelstrom of fanatical propaganda.” But Sam Johnson, standing tall, skinny and big-eared on the floor of the House, made a speech—remembered with admiration fifty years later by fellow members—urging defeat of Bill 15;

Jeez.” Daniella eyed her textbook with an expression of disgust. “Why does everything with the myths have to do with sex?” “Not every myth has to do with sex,” I argued, pushing myself off the wall so I could properly look Daniella in the eye. “A lot of it does,” Jade said, jumping on the bandwagon. “What about all the animals that gods turned into so they could have sex with mortals? Swans and bulls and eagles.” “That was just Zeus,” I corrected with a disgusted frown. “Then there was the sex cloud!” Jade continued. With a vigor, she yanked Beth’s textbook out of her hand and flipped through. She found her page and held up a picture of a centaur. “Ixion had sex with the Hera-shaped cloud and formed the centaurs.” “Or when Aphrodite cursed that one chick to fall in love with her dad,” Bethany said with clenched teeth and a wrinkled nose. “Everything with Aphrodite has to do with sex,” I reasoned unthinkingly. “True story,” Jade said pointedly. “Didn’t she impregnate a girl?” “She didn’t, but she caused a bear to impregnate a follower of Artemis. Her children turned out to be cannibals until Zeus turned them into birds,” I blurted out, unconsciously correcting my friend about the myth. “I don’t think that’s going to be on the test,” Daniella said skeptically. “That’s it!” Beth said with a triumphant slam of her book. “When in doubt, just write sex. You have a fifty-fifty chance of being right. Why did the Trojan war start? Sex! Why did Hercules complete his twelve tasks? Sex! How did Odysseus win Athena’s favor? Sex!

Bud handed them to Pike, and tapped the top picture. “This man was one of the original home invaders. You shot him in Malibu. He’s the only one of the five you shot who was also one of the home invaders.” “What’s his name?” “I don’t know. But this man—” Bud shuffled the pictures to point out a man with prominent cheekbones and a scarred lip. “—he’s the freak who beat the housekeeper. You recognize either of these other guys from Malibu or Eagle Rock?” “Who are they?” “Don’t know. We haven’t been able to identify any of the five people you put in the morgue. The Live Scan kicked back zero. No IDs were found on the bodies, and they weren’t in the system. You can keep these pictures, you want.” Pike stared at the pictures, thinking it didn’t make sense that none of the five had been identified. The type of man you could hire to do murder almost always had a criminal record. The Live Scan system digitized fingerprints, then instantly compared them with computerized records stored by the California Department of Justice and the NCIC files, and those files were exhaustive. If a person had ever been arrested anywhere in the country or served in the military, their fingerprints were in the file. Pike said, “That doesn’t sound right.” “No, it does not, but all five of these guys were clean.” “No IDs or wallets?” “Not one damn thing of a personal nature. You arrested a lot of people, Joe. You remember many shitbirds smart enough to clean up before they did crime?” Pike shook his head. “Me neither. So here we are.” Bud slammed his trunk, then stared at the girl.

She could picture him and his eagle-faced wife laughing, telling their kids, Listen, your aunt Sloane is kind of a disaster and one time she totaled your daddy’s car. Without even the class to say, Don’t tell her we told you. Maybe they even goaded the children to ask her about it.

At the time, we had one of those TV’s operated by coins which are inserted in a box at the side. The three of us were sat side by side on the sofa as the PC delivered his stern lecture. ‘Only dial 999 if it’s an absolute emergency,’ he chastized. ‘It was an emergency,’ I shouted. ‘The coins ran out and we lost our picture.’ The policeman and mum had a job not to laugh. They saw the funny side thankfully but we had a telling off we didn’t forget in a hurry.

May you soar with wings like eagles, may you gain a better view. May you see the pieces fit into a picture bright and new.

Someone—Tony or Warner Bros.?—had decided that the grueling schedule and the added tension in the band might be alleviated somewhat by the relative comfort of bus touring versus Old Blue. It was a nice idea. It might have even been a gambit to see if the camaraderie of sharing a luxurious living situation might heal the band’s broken bonds. So we loaded all of our gear into the parking lot behind our apartment and waited for our new accommodations to arrive. Everyone, I think even Jay, was excited about the prospect of spending at least some small part of our lives seeing what it was like to tour in style. That was until he laid eyes on the Ghost Rider. What we were picturing was sleek and non-ostentatious like the buses we had seen parked in front of theaters at sold-out shows by the likes of R.E.M. or the Replacements. Instead, what we got was one of Kiss’s old touring coaches—a seventies-era Silver Eagle decked out with an airbrushed mural in a style I can only describe as “black-light poster–esque,” depicting a pirate ship buffeted by a stormy sea with a screaming skeleton standing in the crow’s nest holding a Gibson Les Paul aloft and being struck by lightning. The look on Jay’s face was tragic. I felt bad for him. This was not a serious vehicle. I’m not sure how we talked him into climbing aboard, and once we did, I have no idea how we got him to stay, because the interior was even worse. White leather, mirrored ceilings, and a purple neon sign in the back lounge informing everyone, in cursive, that they were aboard the “Ghost Rider” lest they forget. So we embarked upon Uncle Tupelo’s last tour learning how to sleep while being shot at eighty miles per hour down the highway inside a metal box that looked like the VIP room at a strip club and made us all feel like we were living inside a cocaine straw. Ghost Rider indeed.

Quinn looksat the ultrasound pictures, eyes glossing over. We’re headed home, and I steal a glance away from the road to see her beautiful face. Her eyes are brimming with tears. “What’s wrong, babe?” I put my hand on her thigh. “Nothing.” Tears roll down her cheeks. “Why are you crying?” “I was thinking about bald eagles.” “Bald eagles?” I raise an eyebrow. “Bald eagles make youcry?” “They used to be endangered. But they’re not anymore. They’re so majestic and beautiful and I’m just so happy they’re not endangered anymore.” I don’t mean to laugh, but dammit, she’s so fucking adorable. “Remember how you said it wasn’t fair that I didn’t get to experience drunk-Quinn?” “Yeah.” “I am now.” I wink and squeeze her thigh. She sniffles and laughs, wiping her eyes. “Yeah. I guess so.” Her eyes squeeze shut, and more tears streamout. “Stop thinking about eagles, babe,” I try to say seriously but end up laughing. Quinn laughs too, shaking her head.