Fuel Your Fire Quotes

I regret nothing. No woman with any self-respect would have done less. The question of good and evil will always be one of philosophy's most intriguing problems, up there with the problem of existence itself. I'm not quarreling with your choice of issues, only with your intellectually diminished approach. If evil means to be self-motivated, to live on one's own terms, then every artist, every thinker, every original mind, is evil. Because we dare to look through our own eyes rather than mouth cliches lent us from the so-called Fathers. To dare to see is to steal fire from the Gods. This is mankind's destiny, the engine which fuels us as a race.

I can hear our hearts breaking." A tear wets my fingertips, his tears, and his other hand encases my face, the way mine does him. His lips nearly skim mine. "I’ll shield your ears from the sound of heartbreak.

We never touched, but I made love to your mind.

When you are rich and powerful, no one will challenge you to your face or give you a chance to explain yourself. All the whispers are behind your back. You are left with no means of clearing your own name. And after a while you realize there is no point in even attempting to do so. No one wants the truth. All anyone wants is the chance to add more fuel to the fires of gossip. The whispers become so loud that sometimes you think you will drown in them.

When I was seventeen you said you wanted to perform an autopsy on me, to crack open my ribcage and squeeze my heart until it burst between your fingers.” What is that—if not flirting? She lifts her head off a pillow to near me, propping her elbows on the mattress. “That was me hating you, Richard. I dreamed of your death.” “You dreamed of clutching my heart,” I rebut. “Of killing you,” she emphasizes. I lean closer to her, our eyes locking. “Vous m’aimiez.” You loved me.

We all need small sparks, small accomplishments in our lives to fuel the big ones. Think of your small accomplishments as kindling. When you want a bonfire, you don’t start by lighting a big log. You collect some witch’s hair—a small pile of hay or some dry, dead grass. You light that, and then add small sticks and bigger sticks before you feed your tree stump into the blaze. Because it’s the small sparks, which start small fires, that eventually build enough heat to burn the whole fucking forest down.

That is why enemies can be great motivators. They serve as fuel for your fire.

Motivation is like fire—unless you keep adding fuel to it, it dies. Your fuel is your belief in your inner values.

At the bottom of the mountain you have your scoffers and doubters, by midpoint you have your envious and haters, and when you reach to the top you have new friends and family you never met or thought existed.

You’re demanding when you want to be … And you’re so brilliant and attractive; it becomes maddening” – my heart pumps faster – “that someone like you exists, and that you should be here in our bedroom, that we should share a bedroom at all – it’s unreal and the most fulfilling life I could ever think to dream.” I whisper. “I’m tragically in love with you, and I wouldn’t want it any other way

Connor’s eyes soak through me, his attention one-hundred percent mine. Your importance to Connor depends directly on the amount of time he gives you – and if I travel back in time, to our teenage years, I realize that I’ve always ranked near the top of his list.

An incomplete list: No more diving into pools of chlorinated water lit green from below. No more ball games played out under floodlights. No more porch lights with moths fluttering on summer nights. No more trains running under the surface of cities on the dazzling power of the electric third rail. No more cities. No more films, except rarely, except with a generator drowning out half the dialogue, and only then for the first little while until the fuel for the generators ran out, because automobile gas goes stale after two or three years. Aviation gas lasts longer, but it was difficult to come by. No more screens shining in the half-light as people raise their phones above the crowd to take pictures of concert states. No more concert stages lit by candy-colored halogens, no more electronica, punk, electric guitars. No more pharmaceuticals. No more certainty of surviving a scratch on one's hand, a cut on a finger while chopping vegetables for dinner, a dog bite. No more flight. No more towns glimpsed from the sky through airplane windows, points of glimmering light; no more looking down from thirty thousand feet and imagining the lives lit up by those lights at that moment. No more airplanes, no more requests to put your tray table in its upright and locked position – but no, this wasn't true, there were still airplanes here and there. They stood dormant on runways and in hangars. They collected snow on their wings. In the cold months, they were ideal for food storage. In summer the ones near orchards were filled with trays of fruit that dehydrated in the heat. Teenagers snuck into them to have sex. Rust blossomed and streaked. No more countries, all borders unmanned. No more fire departments, no more police. No more road maintenance or garbage pickup. No more spacecraft rising up from Cape Canaveral, from the Baikonur Cosmodrome, from Vandenburg, Plesetsk, Tanegashima, burning paths through the atmosphere into space. No more Internet. No more social media, no more scrolling through litanies of dreams and nervous hopes and photographs of lunches, cries for help and expressions of contentment and relationship-status updates with heart icons whole or broken, plans to meet up later, pleas, complaints, desires, pictures of babies dressed as bears or peppers for Halloween. No more reading and commenting on the lives of others, and in so doing, feeling slightly less alone in the room. No more avatars.

...As an artist, you need the naysayers and the nonbelievers to add fuel to your creative fire.

I need you to keep looking at me like you’re going to burn a hole through my heart, and I need you to tell me that you love the real me. Every day, I need you, Rose. That’s how I’m going to stomach this.

Children laugh for no reason at all. They laugh because they're alive and they're in your arms. It's senseless, but this senseless moment pounds against my heart more than a sound fact.

Lo shoots a withering glare his way. "Your our goddamn publicist, not the king of the caste, so stop acting like you have authority to banish my brother into another room.

When you hang with your tribe, you feel invigorated, recognized, and understood—you can’t underestimate the powerful effects of being fortified in that way. When you have your tribe on speed dial, you’ve got all the resources you need to fuel up, fly straight, and head back out to face the world at large.

Thanks for making me stronger in ways you don’t care to know. I will not accept your damaging criticisms anymore to fuel your fire.

You’ve helped me for years.” His brows pull hard. “Now it’s time I help you, and I’m not acting like you’re a leper because this guy tells me to. You may be fucking weird as hell when you and Rose start verbally sparring, but you’re my weirdo best friend. That’s not changing.

Take a nice, long look at your future, reaper. You'll soon be burning as fuel for hundreds of tiny fires." Tod laughed out loud. "If that's your way of saying I'm hot, rest assured, I already know." He spread his arms, inviting Avari and his monstrous court to look him over. "But I'm going to have to keep lighting up the room with my dazzling personality, because you couldn't scrape enough fat off me to fill even one of your sick-ass human candles. And, based on the crowd behind you, I'm guessing most of your friends look better in the dark anyway.

We dare not talk of the darkness for fear it will infect us. We dare not talk of the fire, for fear it will destroy us. And so we live in the half-light, Like our mothers before us. Come to the fire, Feel it warm your skin. Come to the fire, Feel it burn in your belly, Shine out through your eyes. Come dance in the fire, Let it fuel your prayers.

But how?” she says, her voice breaking on the word. “How do I get them out of my head?” “Set them on fire.” Her eyes go wide. “In your mind,” I say, attempting a smile. “Let them fuel the fire that keeps you striving.” I reach out, touch my fingers to her cheek. “Idiots are highly flammable, love. Let them all burn in hell.

Once I thought I saw you in a crowded hazy bar, Dancing on the light from star to star. Far across the moonbeam I know that's who you are, I saw your brown eyes turning once to fire. You are like a hurricane There's calm in your eye. And I'm gettin' blown away To somewhere safer where the feeling stays. I want to love you but I'm getting blown away. I am just a dreamer, but you are just a dream, You could have been anyone to me. Before that moment you touched my lips That perfect feeling when time just slips Away between us on our foggy trip. You are like a hurricane There's calm in your eye. And I'm gettin' blown away To somewhere safer where the feeling stays. I want to love you but I'm getting blown away. You are just a dreamer, and I am just a dream. You could have been anyone to me. Before that moment you touched my lips That perfect feeling when time just slips Away between us on our foggy trip. You are like a hurricane There's calm in your eye. And I'm gettin' blown away To somewhere safer where the feeling stays. I want to love you but I'm getting blown away. The song was written in July 1975 after Young had just undergone an operation on his vocal chords after a cocaine-fueled night with friend. "We were all really high, fucked up. Been out partying. Wrote it sitting up at Vista Point on Skyline. Supposed to be the highest point in San Mateo County, which was appropriate. I wrote it when I couldn't sing. I was on voice rest. It was nuts - I was whistling it. I wrote a lot of songs when I couldn't talk.

Your body is made of the same elements that lionesses are built from. Three quarters of you is the same kind of water that beats rocks to rubble, wears stones away. Your DNA translates into the same twenty amino acids that wolf genes code for. When you look in the mirror and feel weak, remember, the air you breathe in fuels forest fires capable of destroying everything they touch. On the days you feel ugly, remember: diamonds are only carbon. You are so much more.

A fire will burn itself out, unless you open a window and give it fuel.. And when flames are licking at your heels you've got to break a wall or two if you want to escape.

Do not let anger over the past become the fuel that fire your future

Truthfully though, it’s the reality. Once you change your nature, people question.

I am burning. I have to live, I have to sing, I want to transform myself into a thousand different characters and carry their life with me onto the stage where it's so bright and so dark at the same time, just knowing there are three thousand people out there longing to be swept away by the passion that's about to flood out from scarlet curtains, to this I consecrate my body and my soul, I can give no more than all of myself, I feel my heart is a throbbing engine and my voice is the valve, like a wailing train, it has to sing or blow up, there's too much fuel, too much fire, and what am I to do with this voice if I can't let it out, it's not just singing. I am here as a speck, but I don't feel scared or about to be blown away, I feel like all New York is a warm embrace just waiting to enfold me. I am in love. But not with a person. I am passionately in love with my life.

I whisper, “I can hear our hearts breaking.” A tear wets my fingertips, his tears, and his other hand encases my face, the way mine does him. His lips nearly skim mine. “I’ll shield your ears from the sound of heartbreak.” My chest swells. “And what happens when I ache to hear your voice?” “I’ll whisper beyond every anguished sound.” He closes his lips over mine, once, before murmuring, “Tu m’entendras toujours, où que je sois.” You will always hear me, no matter where I am. He

The farther removed you are from people actually shooting at you, the more you forget that cannons can do something to you other than fire salutes.

Anything else has no relevance. I can’t be what you need me to be. So you’ll have to accept this version or waste your time questioning something that has no answer. I know acceptance isn’t easy when you’re unsure of what you’re accepting, but all I can say is that you’re accepting me as me.

Maybe you shouldn’t talk about anal sex behind our backs,” I retort, able to deduce the subject of their conversations. “Fine, I’ll talk about it to your face,” Lo challenges. “I hear you like it in the ass.” He raises his can of Fizz Life to me. “Cheers.

As anyone who starts a business knows, it is a fantastic race. There is a statistic that hangs over your head - over 90 percent of all new businesses fail in the first three years. For anyone with even a bit of competitive spirit in them, especially for someone who defines himself or herself as an entrepreneur, these overwhelming odds of failure are not intimidating, they only add fuel to the fire. The foolishness of thinking that you're a part of the small minority of those who actually will make it past three years and defy the odds is part of what makes entrepreneurs who they are, driven by passion and completely irrational.

Catapult into your highest version by doing the things that fuels you with a swanky fire. Yes, even when it doesn't make sense to the world.

Your success depends on how much fire of desire you have AND how much fuel of passion you feed it.

Be a good companion to yourself and you will never be lonely”—that had to be the aspiration. She wanted to fuel her own fire. If you got your fuel from men, they could leave, and you’d be left alone in the cold.

Passion towards a dream is the fuel that fires every trace of impossibility in the environment, paving way for you to win with style.

When faced with contrast, take nothing personally and don’t try to defend yourself. Defending one’s self is a vibrational relative of guilt. People will think what they like; do not feed fuel to the fire by reacting. Simply ask questions for clarity and in response say ‘Is that so?’ Take responsibility for the energy you brought to the situation, acknowledge the illusions without attachment, and move forward. Other people’s opinions are none of your business. Remember that each person is on their own unique path, and the mirror of contrast you hold up to them may be exactly what is necessary for their conscious growth at that time.

You think too much, Pearl. It’s your most irritating flaw, and, let us be honest, given the severity and sheer volume of your flaws, that is saying something. Since this seems to be a time for advice, I suggest you stop thinking entirely.’ ‘And how might I achieve that? Follow your lead, perhaps?’ ‘I think neither too much nor too little. I am perfectly balanced—this is what you find so attractive. As a capemoth is drawn to fire.’ ‘So I am in danger of being burned up?’ ‘To a blackened, shrivelled crust.’ ‘So, you’re pushing me away for my own good. A gesture of compassion, then.’ ‘Fires neither push nor pull. They simply exist, compassionless, indifferent to the suicidal urges of flitting bugs. That is another one of your flaws, Pearl. Attributing emotion where none exists.’ ‘I could have sworn there was emotion, two nights past—’ ‘Oh, fire burns eagerly when there’s fuel—’ ‘And in the morning there’s naught but cold ashes.

Hummingbird Flitting, darting A restless quest To fuel a fire That burns your breast Seeking sweetness For selfish glee Bringing gifts So heedlessly Your touch a trigger You fire life Igniting beauty In vibrant strife To equal you In colors bright They dazzle, dumbfound And delight But in tableau Their beauty ends Enlivened only By the wind Whilst you with Generous energy Prove a lovely Vibrant Persephone Their season ends Those blooms of spring And hummingbird On fragile wing Too soon I fear You will expire Sweetness smolders Consumed in fire.

All sensible people know that vanity is the most devastating, the most universal, and the most ineradicable of the passions that afflict the soul of man, and it is only vanity that makes him deny its power. It is more consuming than love. With advancing years, mercifully, you can snap your fingers at the terror and the servitude of love, but age cannot free you from the thraldom of vanity. Time can assuage the pangs of love, but only death can still the anguish of wounded vanity. Love is simple and seeks no subterfuge, but vanity cozens you with a hundred disguises. It is part and parcel of every virtue: it is mainspring of courage and the strength of ambition; it gives constancy to the lover and endurance to the stoic; it adds fuel to the fire of the artist's desire for fame and is at once the support and the compensation of the honest man's integrity; it leers even cynically in the humility of the saint. You cannot escape it, and should you take pains to guard against it, it will make use of those very pains to trip you up. You are defenseless against its onslaught because you know not on what unprotected side it will attack you. Sincerity cannot protect you from its snare nor humour from its mockery. [His Excellency]

Fire What makes a fire burn is space between the logs, a breathing space. Too much of a good thing, too many logs packed in too tight can douse the flames almost as surely as a pail of water would. So building fires requires attention to the spaces in between, as much as the wood. When we are able to build open spaces in the same way we have learned to pile on the logs, then we can come to see how it is fuel, and absence of the fuel together, that make fire possible. We only need lay a log lightly from time to time. A fire grows simply because the space is there, with openings in which the flame that knows just how it wants to burn can find its way. 12 Judy Brown

Don’t know when I learned to play with matches Must want it all to end in ashes Foot on the gas, add fuel to the fire I’m already high and going higher Charging faster, ready to ignite Headed for disaster, chasing the night You turn wrong when you turn right White light at first sight Oh, you’re chasing the night But it’s a nightmare chasing you

Every aspect of you is fuel for your creative fire.

I see the fire in your eyes and all I wanna do is fuel it. Light me up, set my soul on fire. I’m yours.

She wanted to fuel her own fire. If you got your fire from men, they could leave, and you'd be left alone in the cold.

Nothing can squelch your fire except turning your back on the thing that fuels it.

Sometimes you must allow your eyes to adjust to a truer shape of something you’d once molded and possibly loved but perhaps never wanted. Something to unravel now, straight from these roots. Something that at some point, you loosened your fingers around. Something that at some stage, you finally outgrew. So allow this chapter to hold you in darkly wrapped nights while allowing desires to just be desires before lighting that flame stemmed from your longing and churned into fuel so when it is time, you’ll have enough strength to surrender to fire that holds the burn long enough to finally take flight.

Only forest fires produce more black carbon than bunker fuel. Bunker fuel can have a sulfur content of up to 45,000 parts per million (ppm). Low-sulfur diesel for cars is supposed to contain 10 ppm. The sulfur is converted into acid

Does your hate make you happy, my dear, or does it continually eat through you, a cancer of its own making? Does the constant fueling of that angry fire not exhaust you and take away from living the wonderful life you’ve been given?

The power which rules within us, when its state is accordant with nature, so acts in every occurrence as easily to adapt itself to all present or possible situations. It requires no set material to work upon, but, under proper reservation, needs but the incitement to pursue, and makes matter for its activities out of every opposition. Even so a fire masters that which is cast upon it, and though a small flame would have been extinguished, your great blaze quickly makes the added fuel its own, consumes it, and grows mightier therefrom.

In my dear pine-clad mountains of the Harz   There’s a pitchlike smell, a smell I favor   Most of all, excepting that of sulphur.   But here among these Greeks there’s not a trace   Of anything like that. I’m curious   To find out what they use below in their Hell   To stoke the fires with, their kind of fuel.   DRYAD. I guess you’re smart enough in your own country,   Abroad you’re something less than apt; 8220 Stop thinking home thoughts, try, Sir, to adapt   And show due honor to our sacred oak tree.   MEPHISTO. What you have lost, that’s what you think about,

[When asked where his drive comes from] " You're bullied, you're miserable...every artist has someone who told them they weren't worth dirt and someone who told them that they were the second coming of the baby Jesus and they believed them both, and that's the fuel that stirs the fire.

Remember, you are not your negative thoughts. You are not your painful imaginations. See yourself as separate from your thoughts. This will aid you in dismissing the horror films. Just as fire fades when not fed additional fuel, so do emotional fires fade away when we cease to fuel them with negative imagination.

There is a strong mind-body connection so depression and anxiety are important cofactors for pain. They don't cause it but they are accelerants. Think of whatever causes your pain as the match that started a fire. Depression and anxiety are fuel on that fire. It is hard to put out a fire when someone is dousing it with gasoline.

Don't be afraid of what others may think. Your creativity belongs to you, your inspiration, your imagination is all yours. Be passionate and write with fire in your words. Allow no boundaries to what you feel and believe. The spark that drives you to write is the fuel for your desire to create great novels. Know that you have the spirit within.

Her eyes are bright with unshed tears. “But how?” she says, her voice breaking on the word. “How do I get them out of my head?” “Set them on fire.” Her eyes go wide. “In your mind,” I say, attempting a smile. “Let them fuel the fire that keeps you striving.” I reach out, touch my fingers to her cheek. “Idiots are highly flammable, love. Let them all hunt in hell.

PC or not, Middle Eastern groups, including Abu Nidal’s, are not tacticians. They walk into nightclubs strapped with explosives, plant car bombs, spray crowded markets with machine-gun fire, and fly hijacked planes full of fuel into buildings. Plain and simple, they’re cowards. They won’t confront anyone on a one-to-one basis. They don’t have the savvy or the courage to do in-your-face operations.

Set them on fire.' Her eyes go wide. 'In your mind,' I say, attempting a smile. 'Let them fuel the fire that keeps you striving.' I reach out, touch my fingers to her cheek. 'Idiots are highly flammable, love. Let them all burn in hell.' She closes her eyes. Turns her face into my hand. And I pull her in, press my forehead to hers. 'Those who do not understand you,' I say softly, 'will always doubt you.

I can certainly throw out some observation about the process of creating which may be of use. Firstly, it's the best & the worst of worlds, because the only fuel you have to make the fire blaze on the page / screen is the stuff of your own being. An artist consumes his or herself in the act of making art. I can feel that consumption even now, sitting here at my desk at the end of a working day. In order to generate the ideas that I have set on the page for the last 10 or 11 hours I have burned the fuel of my own history. This is, obviously a double-edged sword. In order to give, the artist must take from himself. That's the deal. And it's very important to me that the work I do is the best I can make it, because I know what is being burned up to create. As the villain of Sacrament says: "living & dying, we feed the fire.

I am burning. I have to live, I have to sing, I want to transform myself into a thousand different characters and carry their life with me onto the stage where it's so bright and so dark at the same time, just knowing there are three thousand people out there longing to be swept away by the passion that's about to flood out from scarlet curtains, to this I consecrate my body and my soul, I can give no more than all of myself, I feel my heart is a throbbing engine and my voice is the valve, like a wailing train, it has to sing or blow up, there's too much fuel, too much fire, and what am I to do with this voice if I can't let it out, it's not just singing. I am here as a speck, but I don't feel scared or about to be blown away, I feel like all New York is a warm embrace just waiting to enfold me. I am in love. But not with a person. I am passionately in love with my life.

How did you combat it?” I felt it rising up in him, answering my call. Yet coolly, remotely, he thrust it away. He could have joined me, adding fuel to my fire. “You choose. Hero or villain.” “You told me you’re not the hero.” “Not the villain either.” “What else is there?” “A person that gets up every day and tries as hard as she can to live up to what she believes in. Aims for the stars. Misses sometimes. Tries again. Harder. With more commitment to protecting others and less selfishness.

I know you are tired. I know you are hurting. I know that even among the crowds and or with your closest loved ones, you feel terribly alone in the world. I know that in the quietness, a thousand hell hounds are barking and snarling at your heels. They tell you, "Everything is wrong with you. You are a failure. You will never live to see your dreams and visions come to pass. You know you should just throw in the towel. No one would even miss you if you were gone. Exit from this cruel insane assylum you call home. We will even tell you how to end 'it'." But don't you dare entertain those hounds of hell, no, not even for one moment. See, you not only have the elixir of Life inside of your organs and your veins; you are the Elixir of Life of a Celestial domain. For every hell hound nipping at your ears, there are eight hundred angels rushing to you with every holy breath....you take. Every step you make fuels the fire of Love in your behalf. See, nothing is wrong with you. Every thing is right with you. You are cut from iron. You have long exchanged your velveteen fabric and cotton stuffing for blazen guts and a heart of gold. You are the head and not the tail. You are the water in the desert, the ripple in the steam, the sword AND the stone and you, glorious being, are not alone! We are one and we are many. We've known lack, but we are plenty. We are not on the cusp of a break through. We are the cusp and we are the break --- through. We are the old and we are the new. Who knew? You did. You do. And don't you ever forget that.

There is nothing that the media could say to me that would justify the way they’ve acted. You can hound me. You can follow me, but in no way should you frighten those around me. To harm my wife and potentially harm my daughter—there is no excuse that could put any of you on the right side of morality. I met Rose when I was fifteen and she was fourteen, and through what she would call fate and I’d call circumstance of our hobbies, we’d cross paths dozens of times over the course of a decade. At seventeen, I attended the same national Model UN conference as Rose, and a delegate for Greenland locked us in a janitorial closet. He also stole our phones. He had to beat us dishonorably because he couldn’t beat us any other way. Rose said being locked in a confined space with me was the worst two hours of her life" They look bemused, brows furrowing. I can’t help but smile. “You’re confused because you don’t know whether she was exaggerating or whether she was being truthful. But the truth is that we are complex people with the ability to love to hate and to hate to love, and I wouldn’t trade her for any other person. So that day, stuck beside mops and dirtied towels, I could’ve picked the lock five minutes in and let her go. Instead, I purposefully spent two hours with a girl who wore passion like a dress made of diamonds and hair made of flames. Every day of my life, I am enamored. Every day of my life, I am bewitched. And every day of my life, I spend it with her.” My chest swells with more power, lifting me higher. “I’ve slept with many different kinds of people, and yes, the three that spoke to the press are among them. Rose is the only person I’ve ever loved, and through that love, we married and started a family. There is no other meaning behind this, and for you to conjure one is nothing less than a malicious attack against my marriage and my child. Anything else has no relevance. I can’t be what you need me to be. So you’ll have to accept this version or waste your time questioning something that has no answer. I know acceptance isn’t easy when you’re unsure of what you’re accepting, but all I can say is that you’re accepting me as me. I leave them with a quote from Sylvia Plath. “‘I took a deep breath and listened to the old brag of my heart.’” My lips pull higher, into a livelier smile. “‘I am, I am, I am.’” With this, I step away from the podium, and I exit to a cacophony of journalists shouting and asking me to clarify. Adapt to me. I’m satisfied, more than I even predicted. Some people will rewind this conference on their television, to listen closely and try to understand me. I don’t need their understanding, but my daughter will—and I hope the minds of her peers are wide open with vibrant hues of passion. I hope they all paint the world with color.

Couldn't it be said that it was in the seventeenth century that we started down the path that has brought us to where we are now? After all, it was then that Londoners began to use coal on a large scale, for heating, which was how our dependence on fossil fuels started. Would your Jacobean playwrights have written as they did if they hadn't had coal fires to warm them? Did they know that an angry beast, which had long lain dormant within the earth, was coming to life? Did Hobbes or Leibniz or any of the other thinkers of the Enlightenment have any understanding of this?

Replace Behaviors That Make Your Rumination and Worry Worse There’s not much point in using strategies to decrease rumination and worry if you’re concurrently adding fuel to those fires. Self-criticism is one kind of fuel. Other types of fuel include things like excessive reassurance seeking, spending hours looking up health information online, or compulsively looking at your ex’s Facebook page. Look out for behaviors that seem to provide a temporary reprieve from anxiety but, in fact, make you feel like you need to go back and repeat them. Look into seeing a cognitive behavioral therapist if you can’t stop those behaviors on your own.

What happened? Many things. But the overriding problem was this: The auto industry got too comfortable. As Intel cofounder Andy Grove once famously proclaimed, “Only the paranoid survive.” Success, he meant, is fragile—and perfection, fleeting. The moment you begin to take success for granted is the moment a competitor lunges for your jugular. Auto industry executives, to say the least, were not paranoid. Instead of listening to a customer base that wanted smaller, more fuel-efficient cars, the auto executives built bigger and bigger. Instead of taking seriously new competition from Japan, they staunchly insisted (both to themselves and to their customers) that MADE IN THE USA automatically meant “best in the world.” Instead of trying to learn from their competitors’ new methods of “lean manufacturing,” they clung stubbornly to their decades-old practices. Instead of rewarding the best people in the organization and firing the worst, they promoted on the basis of longevity and nepotism. Instead of moving quickly to keep up with the changing market, executives willingly embraced “death by committee.” Ross Perot once quipped that if a man saw a snake on the factory floor at GM, they’d form a committee to analyze whether they should kill it. Easy success had transformed the American auto

AN INCOMPLETE LIST: No more diving into pools of chlorinated water lit green from below. No more ball games played out under floodlights. No more porch lights with moths fluttering on summer nights. No more trains running under the surface of cities on the dazzling power of the electric third rail. No more cities. No more films, except rarely, except with a generator drowning out half the dialogue, and only then for the first little while until the fuel for the generators ran out, because automobile gas goes stale after two or three years. Aviation gas lasts longer, but it was difficult to come by. No more screens shining in the half-light as people raise their phones above the crowd to take photographs of concert stages. No more concert stages lit by candy-colored halogens, no more electronica, punk, electric guitars. No more pharmaceuticals. No more certainty of surviving a scratch on one’s hand, a cut on a finger while chopping vegetables for dinner, a dog bite. No more flight. No more towns glimpsed from the sky through airplane windows, points of glimmering light; no more looking down from thirty thousand feet and imagining the lives lit up by those lights at that moment. No more airplanes, no more requests to put your tray table in its upright and locked position—but no, this wasn’t true, there were still airplanes here and there. They stood dormant on runways and in hangars. They collected snow on their wings. In the cold months, they were ideal for food storage. In summer the ones near orchards were filled with trays of fruit that dehydrated in the heat. Teenagers snuck into them to have sex. Rust blossomed and streaked. No more countries, all borders unmanned. No more fire departments, no more police. No more road maintenance or garbage pickup. No more spacecraft rising up from Cape Canaveral, from the Baikonur Cosmodrome, from Vandenburg, Plesetsk, Tanegashima, burning paths through the atmosphere into space. No more Internet. No more social media, no more scrolling through litanies of dreams and nervous hopes and photographs of lunches, cries for help and expressions of contentment and relationship-status updates with heart icons whole or broken, plans to meet up later, pleas, complaints, desires, pictures of babies dressed as bears or peppers for Halloween. No more reading and commenting on the lives of others, and in so doing, feeling slightly less alone in the room. No more avatars.

In the years after The Fire Next Time, Baldwin openly questioned capitalism—even commending, with Bobby Seale, a “Yankee Doodle”–type socialism. He relentlessly criticized white supremacy, railed against U.S. imperialism, and prophesied the end of the West. In his open letter to Angela Davis in 1970, he succinctly summarized that politics: “We know that we, the blacks, and not only we, the blacks, have been, and are, the victims of a system whose only fuel is greed, whose only god is profit. We know that the fruits of this system have been ignorance, despair, and death, and we know that the system is doomed because the world can no longer afford it—if, indeed, it ever could have….The enormous revolution in black consciousness which has occurred in your generation…means the beginning or the end of America

You use more than thirty pounds of ATP during a one-hour walk and more than your entire body weight of ATP over the course of a typical day—an obviously impossible amount to lug around in reserve.15 Consequently, a human body stores in toto only about a hundred grams of ATPs at any given moment.16 Fortunately, before our first few steps deplete the leg muscles’ scant supply of ATPs, they quickly tap into another ATP-like molecule known as creatine phosphate that also binds to phosphates and stores energy.17 Unfortunately, those creatine phosphate reserves are also limited, becoming 60 percent depleted after ten seconds of sprinting and exhausted after thirty seconds.18 Even so, the precious short burst of fuel they provide gives muscles time to fire up a second energy recharging process: breaking down sugar.

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.

what is known as a neutron moderator, which, in an RBMK reactor, is comprised of vertical graphite blocks surrounding the fuel channels. Each RBMK contains 1850 tons of graphite. This graphite slows - moderates - the speed of neutrons moving in the fuel, because slowed neutrons are far more likely collide with uranium235 nuclei and split. When playing golf, for example, if your ball is a few centimeters from the hole, you don’t hit it as hard as you possibly can, you give it a slow tap to the target. It’s the same principle with neutrons in a reactor. The more often the resulting atomic split occurs, the more the chain reaction sustains itself and the more energy is produced. In other words, the graphite moderator creates the right environment for a chain reaction. Think of it as oxygen in a conventional fire: even with all the fuel in the world, there will be no flame without oxygen.

Pull out a match and light up a million notes and a million words, consume the energy on papers like its fuel, and all the long lost feelings are your coal. Set the whole thing on fire and never look back, an expert on regrets and mistakes, tell the story as easy as a philosophical theory; devils disguised as angels, angels turning into devils, and the perfectionist in between always stuck in the middle. Tired and hurt, but angry till I burn, watching a sinner blaming life and life taking his side still, anyway I took my advice and kept the things I loved from day one aside, so I'm not alone and love is also taking my side. Save the date, it's 365 days in training, and we finally reached the end of our magical tragic failure and if you are smart then it's not a surprise; you know that my sky is not raining. Take out a match and burn this house down, it took me two seconds to figure out that I deserve solid better-looking ground. So let me feel the heat in my brain blow out and my heart beating in its place safe and sound inside.

CHASING THE NIGHT Trouble starts when I come around Everything’s painted red when I’m in town Light me up and watch me burn it down If you’re anointing a devil, I’ll take my crown Foot on the gas, add fuel to the fire I’m already high and going higher Charging faster, ready to ignite Headed for disaster, chasing the night You turn wrong when you turn right White light at first sight Oh, you’re chasing the night But it’s a nightmare chasing you Life’s coming to me in flashes Wearing my bruises like badges Don’t know when I learned to play with matches Must want it all to end in ashes Foot on the gas, add fuel to the fire I’m already high and going higher Charging faster, ready to ignite Headed for disaster, chasing the night You turn wrong when you turn right White light at first sight Oh, you’re chasing the night But it’s a nightmare chasing you Foot on the gas, add fuel to the fire I’m already high and going higher Foot on the gas, add fuel to the fire Look me in the eye and flick the lighter Oh, you’re chasing the night But it’s a nightmare, honey, chasing you

You have insulted me and degraded me every time I’ve been in your presence. If my brother were here, he’d call you out! Since he is not here,” she continued almost mindlessly, “I shall demand my own satisfaction. If I were a man, I’d have the right to satisfaction on the field of honor, and as a woman I refuse to be denied that right.” “You’re ridiculous.” “Perhaps,” Elizabeth said softly, “but I also happen to be an excellent shot. I’m a far worthier opponent for you on the dueling field than my brother. Now, will you meet me outside, or shall I-I finish you here?” she threatened, so beside herself with fury that she never stopped to think how reckless, how utterly empty her threat was. Her coachman had insisted she learn to fire a weapon for her own protection, but although her aim was excellent when she’d practiced with targets, she had never shot a living thing. “I’ll do no such silly damned thing.” Elizabeth raised the gun higher. “Then I’ll have your apology right now.” “What am I to apologize for?” he asked, still infuriatingly calm. “You may start by apologizing for luring me into the greenhouse with that note.” “I didn’t write a note. I received a note from you.” “You have great difficulty sorting out the notes you send and don’t send, do you not?” she said. Without waiting for a reply she continued, “Next, you can apologize for trying to seduce me in England, and for ruining my reputation-“ “Ian!” Jake said, thunderstruck. “It’s one thing to insult a lady’s handwriting, but spoilin’ her reputation is another. A thing like that could ruin her whole life!” Ian shot him an ironic glance. “Thank you, Jake, for that helpful bit of inflammatory information. Would you now like to help her pull the trigger?” Elizabeth’s emotions veered crazily from fury to mirth as the absurdity of the bizarre tableau suddenly struck her: Here she was, holding a gun on a man in his own home, while poor Lucinda held another man at umbrella point-a man who was trying ineffectually to sooth matters by inadvertently heaping more fuel on the volatile situation. And then she recognized the stupid futility of it all, and that banished her flicker of mirth.

Identify your strengths, and then—this is important—major in them. Take a few irons out of the fire so this one can get hot. Failing to focus on our strengths may prevent us from accomplishing the unique tasks God has called us to do. A lighthouse keeper who worked on a rocky stretch of coastline received oil once a month to keep his light burning. Not being far from a village, he had frequent guests. One night a woman needed oil to keep her family warm. Another night a father needed oil for his lamp. Then another needed oil to lubricate a wheel. All the requests seemed legitimate, so the lighthouse keeper tried to meet them all. Toward the end of the month, however, he ran out of oil, and his lighthouse went dark, causing several ships to crash on the coastline. The man was reproved by his superiors, “You were given the oil for one reason,” they said, “to keep the light burning.”1 We cannot meet every need in the world. We cannot please every person in the world. We cannot satisfy every request in the world. But some of us try. And in the end, we run out of fuel. Have a sane estimate of your abilities and stick to them.

when a really cold day like this come along he’d take my grammaw, and the kids, my uncle and my aunt and my daddy—he was the youngest—and the serving girl and the hired man, and he’d go down with them to the creek, give ’em a little rum-and-herbs drink, it was a recipe he’d got from the old country, then he’d pour creek water over them. Course they’d freeze in seconds, stiff and blue as so many popsicles. He’d haul them to a trench they’d already dug and filled with straw, and he’d stack ’em down there, one by one, like so much cordwood in the trench, and he’d pack straw around them, then he’d cover the top of the trench with two-b’-fours to keep the critters out—in those days there were wolves and bears and all sorts you never see any more around here, no hodags though, that’s just a story about the hodags and I wouldn’t ever stretch your credulity by telling you no stories, no, sir,—he’d cover the trench with two-b’-fours and the next snowfall would cover it up completely, save for the flag he’d planted to show him where the trench was. “Then my grampaw would ride through the winter in comfort and never have to worry about running out of food or out of fuel. And when he saw that the true spring was coming he’d go to the flag, and he’d dig his way down through the snow, and he’d move the two-b’-fours, and he’d carry them in one by one and set the family in front of the fire to thaw. Nobody ever minded except one of the hired men who lost half an ear to a family of mice who nibbled it off one time my grampaw didn’t push those two-b’-fours all the way closed. Of course, in those days we had real winters. You could do that back then. These pussy winters we get nowadays it don’t hardly get cold enough.

I might be a shameless flirt, but at least I don't have a horrible temper. You should come tend to my wounds from our squabble in the snow. I'm bruised all over thanks to you. Something clicked against the nightstand, and a pen rolled across the polished mahogany. Hissing, I snatched it up and scribbed: Go lick your wounds and leave me be. The paper vanished. It was gone for a while- far longer than it should have taken to write the few words that appeared on the paper when it returned. I'd much rather you licked my wounds for me. My heart pounded, faster and faster, and a strange sort of rush went through my veins as I read the sentence again and again. A challenge. I clamped my lips shut to keep from smiling as I wrote, Lick you where exactly? The paper vanished before I'd even completed the final mark. His reply was a long time coming. Then, Wherever you want to lick me, Feyre. I'd like to start with "Everywhere," but I can choose, if necessary. I wrote back, Let's hope my licking is better than yours. I remember how horrible you were at it Under the Mountain. Lie. He'd licked away my tears when I'd been a moment away from shattering. He'd done it to keep me distracted- keep me angry. Because anger was better than feeling nothing; because anger and hatred were the long-lasting fuel in the endless dark of my despair. The same way that music had kept me from breaking. Lucien had come to patch me up a few times, but no one risked quite so much in keeping me not only alive, but as mentally intact as I could be considering the circumstances. Just as he'd been doing these past few weeks- taunting and teasing me to keep the hollowness at bay. Just as he was doing now. I was under duress, his next note read. If you want, I'd be more than happy to prove you wrong. I've been told I'm very, very good at licking. I clenched my knees together and wrote back, Good night. A heartbeat later, his note said, Try not to moan too loudly when you dream about me. I need my beauty rest. I got up, chucked the letter in the burbling fire, and gave it a vulgar gesture. I could have sworn laughter rumbled down the hall.

Reduce Self-Criticism Reducing self-criticism is a critical part of reducing rumination. Self-criticism is a fuel source for your rumination fire. People use self-criticism to try to encourage themselves to do better in the future. For example, someone might ruminate after overeating or if she perceives she has mucked up a social situation, and then mentally beat herself up about her mistakes. However, harsh self-criticism doesn’t help you move forward because it isn’t a very effective motivational tool, especially if you’re already ruminating. People who are in a pattern of trying to use self-criticism as motivation often fear that reducing it will make them lazy. It won’t. In fact, giving yourself a compassionate rather than a critical message will often lead to working harder. For example, one study showed that people who took a hard test and got a compassionate message afterward were willing to study longer for a future similar test, compared to a group of people who took the same test but didn’t get a compassionate message. Giving yourself a simple “don’t be too hard on yourself” message will propel you toward taking useful problem-solving steps. Acknowledging the emotions you’re feeling (such as embarrassed, disappointed, upset) and then giving yourself compassion will lead to your making better choices than criticizing yourself will. Self-compassion will give you the clear mental space you need to make good decisions. Experiment: To practice using self-compassion as an alternative to self-criticism, try the following three-minute writing exercise. There are two versions of this exercise—one that involves thinking about a past mistake and another that involves thinking about something you perceive as a major weakness. Identify a mistake or weakness that you want to focus on, and then write for three minutes using the following instructions: “Imagine that you are talking to yourself about this weakness (or mistake) from a compassionate and understanding perspective. What would you say?” Try this experiment now, or store it away for a future situation in which you find yourself ruminating about a mistake or weakness. This experiment comes from the same series of research studies as the one involving the hard test mentioned earlier. Note that the study participants didn’t receive training in how to write compassionate messages. What they naturally came up with in response to the prompt worked.

Mike Morrison, vice president and dean of the University of Toyota, likes to ask employees: “What’s on the other side of your card?” In other words, the front of your business card may read “Managing Director,” but you may better identify with “big picture thinker” or “educator” or “calm under fire.” This kind of information—or even a few simple details like where a person lives, what his or her favorite hobby is—cuts through the red tape to get somewhere more meaningful, and it can more immediately and effectively forge a connection between two people.

If we are at a constant state of peace it is easier to have mental clarity. With mental clarity it is easier to memorize, retain, and recall the word of God. The more you grow in the Lord in these areas the easier it becomes to retain the word of God if applied correctly. Much like the statement, “the rich get richer” even so the “godly get godlier.” The best way to exercise ourselves mentally is also the same way we exercise ourselves in godliness. As we exercise ourselves towards godliness, we obtain the mind of Christ. A mind which is a loving, sober, holy, and a peacefully, wise mind. When seeking to memorize large amount of text it causes stress on the brain. As it is written, “And further, my son, be admonished by these. Of making many books there is no end, and much study is wearisome to the flesh.” Ecc 12:12  If we are not at peace within ourselves, but tired or stressed out already, then it only adds fuel to the fire. A fire we are trying to put out. Similarly, if we are overly excited it can also be difficult to tame our mind. An overly excited mind can act like a raging bull trampling about wherever it desires. In such a case we need to learn self-discipline. If it is hard for us to grapple our thoughts because our thoughts are running a rampage then we need to discipline ourselves to sit in the presence of the Spirit and have a mind that is at peace. Therefore it is good to meditate on the presence of the Lord and relax before you memorize that you may be ready for the memorizing marathon. Usually if you’re tired or very stressed out that is a time to take a break and rest in the Lord. Make sure you’re both getting plenty of sleep and resting in the presence of the Lord. By continuing in His spirit it will be easier to meditate on Him and His word when the time comes. As we stated before a marathon runner is mindful of their diet. Likewise certain foods can give us a cloudy head, whereas others can give us clarity. When we eat right it helps our mental state. By eating processed foods, refined sugars, highly salty foods, and highly fatty foods it can affect the mind so that it’s hard to think. There have been studies which have proven that after eating fast food many people become depressed, tired, and drowsy. But to keep yourself alert and healthy, it is better to eat whole grain foods, fewer salty foods, less foods high in fat, higher protein foods, and whole foods. Whole foods are foods with no processing. Such as eggs, unprocessed meats (chicken breasts, etc.), whole grains (oatmeal, rice, whole wheat flour etc).

Waiting to be discovered, hoping to be seen, wishing someone else would do the work, wanting to make it big while dreaming of being rich and famous just like your heroes is submissive, passive, foolish, weak, and ineffective. Take your desire for your dreams, your goals, and your ambition, then make them fuel for the fire to light your ass up, to get to work and on the path to make it happen. ���������������������������������������������������������������������� ��� ����� ���� ���� ���� ��� ������ ����� ���� ���� ���� ��� ����� ��� ���� ����� ��� ����� ��� �����������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������

What's that smell?" [my mother] shouted. "Biogas, it's-" "It's horrible!" By now the plastic was rumbling like mad, ready to blow. I had to act quickly. It was time to remove the reed and proceed with ignition. I reached over and quickly popped out the reed, and when I did, a pipe of silver steam came rushing out the top. My mother was right, it smelled vile. I'd set aside a long piece of grass, so I grabbed it now and poked it into the fire, catching a flame. "Stand back!" I shouted. "This could be dangerous." "What?!" I stood up and ran to the door, pushing my mother aside. With half my body shielded by the door frame, I stretched out my arm, inching the flame closer and closer. "Here it goes," I said. I touched the fire to the piping stream, clinching my eyes to shield them from the flash. But when the flame touched the gas, all it did was sputter and die. When I opened my eyes, all I saw was a piece of grass, dripping with foul water. My mother was furious. "Look what you've done; you've ruined my best cooking pot! Boiling goats' poop, I can't believe it. Wait until I tell your father..." I wanted to explain that I'd done it for her sake, but I guess it wasn't the right time.

ALLOW THE SENSATIONS TO BE PRESENT, BUT DO NOT ACT ON THEM This is probably the hardest thing to do when you start using the Four Steps. When you refuse to give in to the content of your deceptive brain messages by not performing the action your brain is telling you to do, your Uh Oh Center fires even more intensely, which makes you feel extremely uncomfortable. You want to do virtually anything to get rid of those sensations, both physical and emotional, and know that simply following your deceptive brain messages will accomplish that task in the short term. The problem, as we all must learn the hard way over time, is that doing so will only fuel the negative messages and further entrench the maladaptive circuits ever more powerfully into your brain. Said another way, short-term relief rapidly causes more pain and suffering, not less.

Let’s suppose you decide to dip your toe in dreams like relocating to the Caribbean for island-hopping or taking a safari in the Serengeti. It will be wonderful and unforgettable, and you should do it. There will come a time, however—be it three weeks or three months later—when you won’t be able to drink another piña colada or photograph another red-assed baboon. That day will come. Self-criticism and existential panic attacks usually start around this time. But this is what I always wanted! How can I be bored? Oh my god, what am I gonna do with myself? Don’t freak out and fuel the fire. This is normal among all high-performers who downshift after working hard for a long time. The smarter and more goal-oriented you are, the tougher these growing pains will be. Don’t be afraid of the existential or social challenges. Freedom is like a new sport. In the beginning, the sheer newness of it is exciting enough to keep things interesting at all times. Once you have learned the basics, though, it becomes clear that having less work is easy. It’s filling the void with more life that is hard. Finding excitement, as it turns out, takes more thought than simple workaholism. But don’t fret. That’s where all the rewards are. —TIM FERRISS, 38,

Unconditional love is the energy of life and the fire of passion. Let it fuel your days and spark your purpose. This is our one precious life in these particular bodies. Be open. Be fierce. Embrace. Enjoy. Experience. Express. And let love be your guiding light.

Now for the really fun part,” Jenny said when Maya was done. “Here's a box of matches. Start lighting.” Maya's eyes widened. With this much fuel on the dry grass, and with the wind blowing a gale, even one match could instantly combust and burn her. “You're crazy.

Filming wildlife documentaries couldn’t have happened without John Stainton, our producer. Steve always referred to John as the genius behind the camera, and that was true. The music orchestration, the editing, the knowledge of what would make good television and what wouldn’t--these were all areas of John’s clear expertise. But on the ground, under the water, or in the bush, while we were actually filming, it was 100 percent Steve. He took care of the crew and eventually his family as well, while filming in some of the most remote, inaccessible, and dangerous areas on earth. Steve kept the cameraman alive by telling him exactly when to shoot and when to run. He orchestrated what to film and where to film, and then located the wildlife. Steve’s first rule, which he repeated to the crew over and over, was a simple one: Film everything, no matter what happens. “If something goes wrong,” he told the crew, “you are not going to be of any use to me lugging a camera and waving your other arm around trying to help. Just keep rolling. Whatever the sticky situation is, I will get out of it.” Just keep rolling. Steve’s mantra. On all of our documentary trips, Steve packed the food, set up camp, fed the crew. He knew to take the extra tires, the extra fuel, the water, the gear. He anticipated the needs of six adults and two kids on every film shoot we ever went on. As I watched him at Lakefield, the situation was no different. Our croc crew came and went, and the park rangers came and went, and Steve wound up organizing anywhere from twenty to thirty people. Everyone did their part to help. But the first night, I watched while one of the crew put up tarps to cover the kitchen area. After a day or two, the tarps slipped, the ropes came undone, and water poured off into our camp kitchen. After a full day of croc capture, Steve came back into camp that evening. He made no big deal about it. He saw what was going on. I watched him wordlessly shimmy up a tree, retie the knots, and resecure the tarps. What was once a collection of saggy, baggy tarps had been transformed into a well-secured roof. Steve had the smooth and steady movements of someone who was self-assured after years of practice. He’d get into the boat, fire up the engine, and start immediately. There was never any hesitation. His physical strength was unsurpassed. He could chop wood, gather water, and build many things with an ease that was awkwardly obvious when anybody else (myself, for example) tried to struggle with the same task. But when I think of all his bush skills, I treasured most his way of delivering up the natural world. On that croc research trip in the winter of 2006, Steve presented me with a series of memories more valuable than any piece of jewelry.

A gratitude practice will help spark the fire within you. It will fuel the alchemical process of transformation into who you were born to be in this world.

Grace Canceled: How Outrage is Destroying Lives, Ending Debate, and Endangering Democracy by Dana Loesch 4/ 5 stars Great book! Book summary: “Popular talk radio host and political activist Dana Loesch confronts the Left's zero-tolerance, accept-no-apologies ethos with a powerful call for a return to core American principles of grace, redemption, justice, and empathy. Diving deep into recent cases where public and private figures were shamed, fired, or boycotted for social missteps, Loesch shows us how the politics of outrage is fueling the breakdown of the American community. How do we find common ground without compromising? Loesch urges readers to meet the face of fury with grace, highlighting inspiring examples like Congressman Dan Crenshaw's appearance on Saturday Night Live.” “Socialists’ two favorite rhetorical tools are envy and shame, and the platform they build on is identity politics. It’s culturally sanctioned prejudice… Identity politics is a tactic of statists, who foster resentment and envy and then peddle the lie that a bigger government can make everything FAIRER. These feelings justify the cruelty inherent in identity politics. Democrats’ favorite tactic is smearing as a ‘racist’ anyone who disagrees with them, challenges their opinion, or simply exists while thinking different thoughts.” -p. 20 “Democrats still need the socialists to maintain power, but it’s a dangerous trade. Going explicitly socialist would doom the Democrats to the dustbin of history. Instead, they’re refashioning the party: It believes wealth is evil, government is your church and savior, and independence is selfishness. Virtue is extinct- ‘virtue signaling’ has replaced actual virtue.” -p. 24 “The socialist definition of social justice ignores merit, neuters ambition, and diminishes the equity of labor. Equal rewards for unequal effort is unjust and fosters resentment.” - pp. 26-7 “The state purports to act on behalf of ‘the common good’. But who defines the common good? It has long been the justification for monstrous acts by totalitarian governments. ...In this way, the common good becomes an excuse for total state control. That was the excuse on which totalitarianism was built. You can achieve the common goal better if there is a total authority, and you must then limit the desires and wishfulness of individuals.” -p. 27 “Socialism is the enemy of charity because it outsources all compassion and altruism to the state. Out of sight, out of mind, they may think-- an overarching theme throughout socialism and communism (and one is just a stepping-stone to the other)... What need is there for personal ambition if government will provide, albeit meagerly, for all your needs from cradle to grave?” -pp. 32-3

Even in darkness, if you close your eyes and try to walk, a serenade of light guides you. And it is not just blank philosophy, it's absolutely true and something that we actually know in the deepest corner of our heart, if only our minds let us look deep enough. And at this time when the world is seeped in a cloud of uncertainty, a shade of darkness that is so dense that an unknown fear clutch us and we fall deep inside that pit of fire, I hope we do not forget that often fire is the most potent element in this Earth to purify us, and even from the ashes one can rise provided we hold on to that Hope, that is the very wings of Faith. This time, this quarantine as they call it, or this Solitude as I call it is making us realize so much and each time I come across a post breathing with life be it music, art, introspective words, I know that this time is letting some of us sink deep in the realm of spiritual growth, even if the outer countenance of that is limited to a shape. The paintings, the songs, the dance and act performances, the cooking dishes, the motivating words, the happiness of spending time with family, the mirth and laughter, even in the frugalities showing the battles of survival, and actually in every littlest post, all I can see is how everyone is getting hold of their inner light and delving into something that gives them the fuel to this light. Sometimes a wreck of clouds bring in a burst of rainfall that perhaps had been long due and yet a silver lining often lurks around as a surprising gift of that grey canopy of clouds. The rain might jolt on the fields of harvest but brings in the promise of a better harvest, and soothes the earth with the harmony of tranquil serenity. The sky shines with a rainbow that we embrace in our hearts through that belief in our abilities and the joy of love, the complete invincible love for ourselves with each and every particle of our soul, and there we rise in compassion and shine in gratitude. I believe, I always believe that anything that we practice often, again and again and yet again, becomes a part of us and sometimes all of us. And perhaps the best practice that we can all indulge in at the moment is the practice of mindfulness, of knowing what truly we want not what we are programmed to want but what lies deep dormant in the innermost vicinity of our hearts where we as souls reside because once we know that, we would know how silence speaks in the sharpest tongue beckoning us again and again onto the path of love, where a serenade of light leads us even through the darkest of gloom.

To set the scene: Madzy Brender à Brandis was a young mother with two small children, trying to survive through years of hardship and danger – and some unexpected pleasures. In May 1942, after her husband was suddenly taken prisoner and sent to a German camp, she began writing a diary to record the details of her life – for her husband to read when he returned, if he returned. She called it “this faithful book.” Here are some passages: 28 October 1944 [when the electricity was cut off because of lack of fuel for the generating plants]: “We have to use the daylight to its utmost, and we figure this out already in the morning. [At the end of the afternoon] We flew faster and faster to use the last bits of daylight, lay the table, lay everything ready so that at 5:30 we could eat in the dusk until we couldn’t find our mouths any more. Blackout and one candle, finished eating and washed the dishes. Read to children in pyjamas and then they to bed. Then unraveled a knitted baby blanket [so that the yarn could be used to knit other things] and at 9:00 blew out the candle and continued by moonlight. But now I’m going to bed, tired but satisfied with my efforts, though very sad about all the misery.” 1 November 1944 [after a threat of having the house demolished]: “Well, our house is still standing. I filled a laundry bag with many things, and everything is standing ready [in case there was a need to evacuate]. Because there is much flying again. At one moment an Allied fighter plane flew over very low; just then three German soldiers were walking past our house and one, “as a joke,” shot his gun at the plane. Tje! What a scare we had!” 24 December 1944 [addressing her husband, still in the camp]: “The whole house is in wonderful peace and I’m sitting by the fire, which gives me just enough light to write this. [The upper door of the small heater, when opened, gave a bit of light.] My Dicks, I don’t have to tell you how very much I miss you on this evening. It is a gnawing sense of longing. But beyond that there is a sorrow in me, a despair about everything, that pervades my whole being. Besides that, however, I’ve already for days seen the light of Christ coming closer and in these days that gives me hope. So does the waxing moon, the hard frost, the bright sun – in a word, all the light in nature after that endless series of misty, rainy, dark days. And so I sit close to my unsteady little light, that constantly abandons me, and think of you. It’s as though you are very close to me. I’m so grateful for everything that I have: your love, the two children, and everything around me.” 12 February 1945 [during the “Hunger Winter” of 1944-45, after one of her trips to forage for food]: “Today I went to Rika in Renswoude: 1¼ hours cycling there, 2½ hours walking back pushing a broken-down bicycle and with 25 pounds of rye [the whole grain, not flour] through streaming rain, while there was constant booming of artillery and bombing in the distance.

Instinct is the fuel that fires the engine of civilization. Generations have labored to build and perfect the engine. Each of you, I hope, will spend your life working to preserve it. Because without it, we would be dangerous beasts.

Chapter One Outside Buchanan School. 7:50 AM. Stupid ideas don’t seem so stupid when you’re about to go through with the stupid idea. Really stupid ideas shine brighter the second they enter your brain. Like, “Hey, man, you prob’ly shouldn’t do what you’re about to do!” I like to think of a field of kittens when that happens… makes it easier to ignore my common sense. Ahhhhh… field kittens. My name is Max… and I was about to do something really stupid. The air smelled of freshly cut grass as birds chirped from trees full of leaves. I took a deep breath as I stalled, hoping a meteor would crash into the planet so I wouldn’t have to go through with the thing. Kids just getting to school lined the sidewalk, curious about what was happening. I squeezed the handlebars of my bike, listening to the sound of tightening rubber under my fingers. “Max, you okay?” Beck, my best friend, said from somewhere. I didn’t know where exactly since fear was making everything blurry. I shook my head to clear the fog. “Never been better,” I said. “Are… are the thrusters working?” It took him a second to answer. “I’unno. I never tested ‘em.” I nodded bravely like a hero who was about to meet his maker. “Nice.” It became blazingly obvious that the world wasn’t going to end anytime over the next few seconds, which meant I was gonna have to perform the stunt that everyone was waiting to see. The stunt wasn’t anything crazy – just a kid jumping his bike over the bike rack filled with other bikes. In front of the bike rack was a cement lip that curved at the bottom, making a nice little ramp that everyone joked about jumping their bike off of. I was about to be the kid that did it. Easy enough, right? Well, my buddy, Beck, thought it’d be epic if I attached some thrusters to the back of my bike. No rocket fuel or flames – just a couple of cans of ultra-compressed air that would fire when I flipped the switch. It was a rig he built himself – that was kind of Beck’s specialty. Jumping the rack was a stunt that I’d been working on for weeks. I knew I wanted to do it because of all the kids who hadn’t done it before. And I was gonna nail it, and the whole school – no, the whole school district – no… the whole city was gonna talk about it when it was done.

Sunrise Sunset by Maisie Aletha Smikle Dusk or Dawn Morning or Evening Night or Noon Summer or Winter The sun is at its best And never takes a rest Delivering Fahrenheit and Kilowatt No matter what From the beginning of time Till the end of time The sun shines Astoundingly divine It captivates your mind Heat like a ball of fire That neither consumes or depletes And requires no ignition From whence does this ball of fire come Extending in the universe Shining from the sky Hotter than volcanic lava Nested up above Stronger than gravity The sun stands Untouchable... Unanchored.... Setting not the heavens or the skies ablaze Ever kindled and never unkindled Its fiery furnace requires no wood Its fiery furnace requires no fuel It cannot be extinguish It requires not human intervention Nor interruption Sunrise or Sunset The sun never takes a rest Nighttime or noontime The sun withstands the test of time Ever shining Ever sending its warmth To a globe that has grown cold To melt the frigid hearts of an ice cold nation

Side note: Do not be an emotional manipulator. If you do not want a man to play with your emotions, do not play with his. As of late I’ve found physical attraction is no longer enough. I need genuine connection. I need to undress the layers of a soul…passion remains the fire, but now intimacy strikes the match, and friendship has become the fuel. – Beau Tapin

What we cannot do, under any circumstances, is precisely what the fossil fuel industry is determined to do and what your government is so intent on helping them do: dig new coal mines, open new fracking fields, and sink new offshore drilling rigs. All that needs to stay in the ground. What we must do instead is clear: carefully wind down existing fossil fuel projects, at the same time as we rapidly ramp up renewables until we get global emissions down to zero globally by mid-century. The good news is that we can do it with existing technologies. The good news is that we can create millions of well-paying jobs around the world in the shift to a postcarbon economy - in renewables, in public transit, in efficiency, in retrofits, in cleaning up polluted land and water.

I’m not suggesting you crawl up your own ass and bore your friends with all your stories about what a badass you used to be. Nobody wants to hear that shit. I’m talking about utilizing past successes to fuel you to new and bigger ones. Because in the heat of battle, when shit gets real, we need to draw inspiration to push through our own exhaustion, depression, pain, and misery. We need to spark a bunch of small fires to become the motherfucking inferno.

We became the immortals and now you worship our recklessness. Look deep you cowardly humans, you scum, you filth- your hate was the fuel to our fire and now we laugh as you yearn for lives unfettered by caution, untouched by fear. Look upon us. Look upon those who were not afraid to be different. Feast on our bravery. Revel in our sound.

Essentially, amor fati is the attitude that regardless of what comes your way, every experience is to be welcomed and accepted, regardless of whether it appears to be positive or negative. When it comes to challenges, amor fati goes beyond simple acceptance. You should love whatever difficulties you face because they are what forge you into a better person. So just like fuel for a fire, those tough times are fuel for your personal growth.