Gate Keeper Quotes

Gulls wheel through spokes of sunlight over gracious roofs and dowdy thatch, snatching entrails at the marketplace and escaping over cloistered gardens, spike topped walls and treble-bolted doors. Gulls alight on whitewashed gables, creaking pagodas and dung-ripe stables; circle over towers and cavernous bells and over hidden squares where urns of urine sit by covered wells, watched by mule-drivers, mules and wolf-snouted dogs, ignored by hunch-backed makers of clogs; gather speed up the stoned-in Nakashima River and fly beneath the arches of its bridges, glimpsed form kitchen doors, watched by farmers walking high, stony ridges. Gulls fly through clouds of steam from laundries' vats; over kites unthreading corpses of cats; over scholars glimpsing truth in fragile patterns; over bath-house adulterers, heartbroken slatterns; fishwives dismembering lobsters and crabs; their husbands gutting mackerel on slabs; woodcutters' sons sharpening axes; candle-makers, rolling waxes; flint-eyed officials milking taxes; etiolated lacquerers; mottle-skinned dyers; imprecise soothsayers; unblinking liars; weavers of mats; cutters of rushes; ink-lipped calligraphers dipping brushes; booksellers ruined by unsold books; ladies-in-waiting; tasters; dressers; filching page-boys; runny-nosed cooks; sunless attic nooks where seamstresses prick calloused fingers; limping malingerers; swineherds; swindlers; lip-chewed debtors rich in excuses; heard-it-all creditors tightening nooses; prisoners haunted by happier lives and ageing rakes by other men's wives; skeletal tutors goaded to fits; firemen-turned-looters when occasion permits; tongue-tied witnesses; purchased judges; mothers-in-law nurturing briars and grudges; apothecaries grinding powders with mortars; palanquins carrying not-yet-wed daughters; silent nuns; nine-year-old whores; the once-were-beautiful gnawed by sores; statues of Jizo anointed with posies; syphilitics sneezing through rotted-off noses; potters; barbers; hawkers of oil; tanners; cutlers; carters of night-soil; gate-keepers; bee-keepers; blacksmiths and drapers; torturers; wet-nurses; perjurers; cut-purses; the newborn; the growing; the strong-willed and pliant; the ailing; the dying; the weak and defiant; over the roof of a painter withdrawn first from the world, then his family, and down into a masterpiece that has, in the end, withdrawn from its creator; and around again, where their flight began, over the balcony of the Room of Last Chrysanthemum, where a puddle from last night's rain is evaporating; a puddle in which Magistrate Shiroyama observes the blurred reflections of gulls wheeling through spokes of sunlight. This world, he thinks, contains just one masterpiece, and that is itself.

THIS IS JUST A NORMAL day for you, isn’t it?” Keefe asked as they shivered outside the Sanctuary gates, waiting for Councillor Terik to meet them. “Go to school, find out you’re covered in a dangerous substance, melt off a few layers of skin, and then hail your besty the Councillor, tell him you’re ditching study hall to save the world, and he says, ‘Cool, I’ll come with you!

She was everywhere. She was screaming in her tortured body. She was watching from cameras in every room. She was the false weather system and the storage devices. She was the gate keeper, throwing six shirts over her swan-brothers necks...opening six doors for her brothers to step through as young men, though their bodies were long gone, used up by the organ banks of the upper castes. A Lamentation of Swans

Keeper of the black gates of Heartstone has a dick that makes me think of the white gates of heaven.

My name is Matthew Swift. I’m a sorcerer, the only one in the city who survived Robert Bakker’s purge. I was killed by my teacher’s shadow and my body dissolved into telephone static and all they had left to bury was a bit of blood. Then we came back, and I am we and we are me, and we are the blue electric angels, creatures of the phones and the wires, the gods made from the surplus life you miserable excuse for mortals pour into all things electric. I am the Midnight Mayor, the protector of the city, the guardian of the night, the keeper of the gates, the watcher on the walls. We turned back the death of cities, we were there when Lady Neon died, we drove the creature called Blackout into the shadows at the end of the alleys, we are light, we are life, we are fire and, would you believe it, the word that best describes our condition right now is cranky. Would you like to see what happens when you make us mad?

Most of it was boring stuff. Complaints he was getting about tomorrow’s healing. Something about Grady not making any progress on the dwarves. But there was one thing I knew I had to tell you. A goblin patrol found some new tracks outside the Sanctuary. They were far away from the gates, and whoever made them was only there briefly. But one of the footprints definitely belonged to an ogre.

Hang on,” Keefe interrupted, turning to Alvar. “You seriously allowed them to erase your memories, torture you, drug you, abandon you, almost kill you—and let you rot for months in a miserable prison cell—all in hopes that the Council would move you back to Everglen so you could . . . open a gate?” “It was not about the task,” Vespera answered for Alvar. “It was about proving his value.” “By opening a gate,” Keefe insisted. “That’s . . . the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard in my life.” Sophie had to agree.

The Keeper of Clouds has unpenned his charges. The Keeper of Winds has unlocked his gates. The Keeper of Waters has opened the sky. The Keeper of Lightnings waves his lances. The Keeper of satellites has observed, 'One hundred percent of probability of precipitation.

I would have chased your spirit across the universe, to the place where your soul came to rest, and demanded the keepers of the gates to let me see you once more.

I swallow the fear in my throat as his cold eyes hold mine. “Go to Hell,” I whisper. “I’m the gate keeper of Hell, baby. Welcome home.

In the secret places of her thymus gland Louise is making too much of herself. Her faithful biology depends on regulation but the white T-cells have turned bandit. They don't obey the rules. They are swarming into the bloodstream, overturning the quiet order of spleen and intestine. In the lymph nodes they are swelling with pride. It used to be their job to keep her body safe from enemies on the outside. They were her immunity, her certainty against infection. Now they are the enemies on the inside. The security forces have rebelled. Louise is the victim of a coup. Will you let me crawl inside you, stand guard over you, trap them as they come at you? Why can't I dam their blind tide that filthies your blood? Why are there no lock gates on the portal vein? The inside of your body is innocent, nothing has taught it fear. Your artery canals trust their cargo, they don't check the shipments in the blood. You are full to overflowing but the keeper is asleep and there's murder going on inside. Who comes here? Let me hold up my lantern. It's only the blood; red cells carrying oxygen to the heart, thrombocytes making sure of proper clotting. The white cells, B and T types, just a few of them as always whistling as they go. The faithful body has made a mistake. This is no time to stamp the passports and look at the sky. Coming up behind are hundreds of them. Hundreds too many, armed to the teeth for a job that doesn't need doing. Not needed? With all that weaponry? Here they come, hurtling through the bloodstream trying to pick a fight. There's no-one to fight but you Louise. You're the foreign body now.

It was not about the task,” Vespera answered for Alvar. “It was about proving his value.” “By opening a gate,” Keefe insisted. “That’s . . . the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard in my life.” Sophie had to agree.

A lot is riding on each individual docent. Here is the docent definition: a docent is a tour guide; a docent is a person who can cause a museum visitor to look more closely at art; a docent is a person who bring art works to life by selectively suggesting ways to look at an art piece, thereby bringing a new awareness to a museum visitor; a docent is a gate keeper; a docent is a person who volunteers hours of time equity for the recompense of a smile.

It is a key keeper’s right to bestow a copy of his key on anyone he wishes. But this practice―a phenomenal rite―is hardly ever performed. To receive a copy of the key means to have its imprint seared into your hand. Holding that branded replica over the front lock miraculously parts the gates to Dreamland. It works just as effectively as inserting the genuine key. Staggering to think about, isn’t it? You might consider clenching your fists when you dream.

The mountain road brick-red of dust laced with lizard tracks, coming up through the peach orchard, hot, windless, cloistral in a silence of no birds save one vulture hung in the smokeblue void of the sunless mountainside, rocking on the high updrafts, and the road turning and gated with bullbriers waxed and green, and the green cadaver grin sealed in the murky waters of the peach pit, slimegreen skull with newts coiled in the eyesockets and a wig of moss.

VISION OF A WISARD How many of you wish to be Wizards when you grow old? How many of you want to fly? I wished to become a dragon – he said And he looked at us with eyes filled with fire The Wizard of Earth’s Sea Descended to tell us a secret of ABRACADABRA Get to know – he said - God’s true name The word will initiate Power Gate keepers of Ancient Knowledge Will open their doors Mythological Archetypes will start their dance Leading you to your tribal clout Skeletons scattered over the burial grounds Ancestors with their weapons and spears Saints and Demons Doctors and Gypsies Healers and Witches Will join you to celebrate The Birth of Self Power of Mind over Body The Vision of the Dominion of Light

What was the problem again? A locked gate?

I love how you make it sound like we just have to knock on the gates of Ravagog and King Dimitar will invite us in for a party.” “A parade in our honor seems more likely,” Keefe teased.

Generally in the case of armies you wish to strike, cities you wish to attack, and people you wish to assassinate, you must know the names of the garrison commander, the staff officers, the ushers, gate keepers, and the bodyguards. You must instruct your agents to inquire into these matters in minute detail. If you wish to conduct offensive war you must know the men employed by the enemy. Are they wise or stupid, clever or clumsy? Having assessed their qualities, you prepare appropriate measures.

could make them laugh, and although he couldn’t make them like him, that was absolutely okay. They were dead-enders headed for dead-end marriages and dead-end jobs. They would raise dead-end kids and dandle dead-end grandkids before coming to their own dead ends in dead-end hospitals and nursing homes, rocketing off into darkness believing they had lived the American Dream and Jesus would meet them at the gates of heaven with the Welcome Wagon. Morris was meant for better things. He just didn’t know what they were.

to shriek and to slam the door shut repeatedly—with a deafening clang each time—until the keeper, notified by a visitor, hurried over to remedy the situation. A herd of roe-deer in a European zoo stepped out of their corral when the gate was left open. Frightened by visitors, the deer bolted for the nearby forest, which had its own herd of wild roe-deer and could support more. Nonetheless,

A villain. The enemy. Sandor watched Sophie tug on her eyelashes—her nervous habit, back in full force. “Nothing is going to happen,” he promised, tucking her blond hair behind her ear with a surprisingly gentle touch for a seven-foot-tall goblin warrior. It definitely helped having Sandor back at her side—especially after almost losing him during the battle on Mount Everest. And Sandor wasn’t the only goblin at Foxfire anymore. Each of the six wings in the main campus building had been assigned its own patrol, with two additional squadrons keeping watch over the sprawling grounds. The Council had also added security throughout the Lost Cities. They had to. The ogres were still threatening war. And in the three weeks since Sophie and her friends had returned from hiding with the Black Swan, the Neverseen had scorched the main gate of the Sanctuary and broken into the registry in Atlantis. Sophie could guess what the rebels had hoped to gain from the elves’ secret animal preserve—they obviously didn’t know that she’d convinced the Council to set the precious alicorns free. But the registry attack remained a mystery. The Councillors kept careful records on every elf ever born, and no one would tell her if any files had been altered or stolen. A bubble popped on Sophie’s head, and Sandor caught the box of Prattles that had been hovering inside. “If you’re going to eat these, I should check them first,” he told her. Sandor’s wide, flat nose scented no toxins in the nutty candy, but he insisted on examining the pin before handing them over. Every box of Prattles came with a special collectible inside, and in the past, the Black

My heart is broken this day. My soul cries out in agony, but I recognize my pain for what it really is. Our shared agony is born of greed, for our fathers, mothers, and friends are all in a better place now. Never again will they know sadness. Never again will they know hunger, thirst, loneliness or pain, yet still we grieve. In reality, we grieve for ourselves. We grieve because we can no longer speak with them, hug them or hold them. We can no longer lean on them when we need a shoulder to cry on. But make no mistake, my brothers and sisters: They are perfect now. Perfect, as all of us will be when the gods, in their infinite wisdom, decide it is our time.

The extraordinary value of the I Ching is that it reveals the secrets of dynamic natural law. Working with its changes opens up access to the middle level of the Positive Paradigm Wheel, the “e” energy layer of Einstein's Unified Theory. This middle level serves as mediating, two-directional gate-keeper between the ever-changing surface rim and the universal, timeless center. You can't get from here to there, except through the middle layer which, in Western thinking, is effectively taboo, buried in the inaccessible "unconscious." To the extent that natural law is a blind spot in the prevailing, linear and exclusively empirical paradigm, we are left powerless to move beyond the surface level of experience. The realm of light and conscience which rests beyond, on the far side of the dynamic energy level, remains functionally inaccessible. Moral codes promoted by religionists or politicians are sometimes equated with conscience. But they're no substitute for direct experience. Only by becoming intelligently competent in managing the subtle energies of the middle level is it possible to travel further inwards for the immediate, personal experience of inner light. When the middle level becomes clogged with painful memories, negative emotions and socially taboo urges, it becomes a barrier to deeper knowing. The Book of Change is indispensable as a tool for restoring the unnecessarily "unconscious" to conscious awareness, so that the levels of human potential can be linked and unified. In Positive Paradigm context, survivors who prevail in dangerous times aren't those with the most material wealth, possessions or political power. They're the ones who've successfully navigated the middle realm, reached the far shore of enlightenment and returned to the surface with their new information intact. Those who succeed in linking the levels of experience are genius-leaders in whatever fields they choose to engage. They're the fortunate ones who've acquired the inner wealth necessary to both hear the inner voice of conscience and act on the guidance they receive.

Wilderness by Carl Sandburg There is a wolf in me . . . fangs pointed for tearing gashes . . . a red tongue for raw meat . . . and the hot lapping of blood—I keep this wolf because the wilderness gave it to me and the wilderness will not let it go. There is a fox in me . . . a silver-gray fox . . . I sniff and guess . . . I pick things out of the wind and air . . . I nose in the dark night and take sleepers and eat them and hide the feathers . . . I circle and loop and double-cross. There is a hog in me . . . a snout and a belly . . . a machinery for eating and grunting . . . a machinery for sleeping satisfied in the sun—I got this too from the wilderness and the wilderness will not let it go. There is a fish in me . . . I know I came from salt-blue water-gates . . . I scurried with shoals of herring . . . I blew waterspouts with porpoises . . . before land was . . . before the water went down . . . before Noah . . . before the first chapter of Genesis. There is a baboon in me . . . clambering-clawed . . . dog-faced . . . yawping a galoot’s hunger . . . hairy under the armpits . . . here are the hawk-eyed hankering men . . . here are the blonde and blue-eyed women . . . here they hide curled asleep waiting . . . ready to snarl and kill . . . ready to sing and give milk . . . waiting—I keep the baboon because the wilderness says so. There is an eagle in me and a mockingbird . . . and the eagle flies among the Rocky Mountains of my dreams and fights among the Sierra crags of what I want . . . and the mockingbird warbles in the early forenoon before the dew is gone, warbles in the underbrush of my Chattanoogas of hope, gushes over the blue Ozark foothills of my wishes—And I got the eagle and the mockingbird from the wilderness. O, I got a zoo, I got a menagerie, inside my ribs, under my bony head, under my red-valve heart—and I got something else: it is a man-child heart, a woman-child heart: it is a father and mother and lover: it came from God-Knows-Where: it is going to God-Knows-Where—For I am the keeper of the zoo: I say yes and no: I sing and kill and work: I am a pal of the world: I came from the wilderness.

I thought we might even retell some of the stories she used to invent for us." "Like the one about the gate at the bottom of the garden that led to fairyland." "And the dragon eggs she found in the woods." "And the time she ran away to join the circus." "Do you remember," said Iris suddenly, "the circus we had here?" "My circus," said Daphne, beaming from behind her wineglass. "Well, yes," Iris interjected, "but only because-" "Because I'd had the horrid measles and missed the real circus when it came to town." Daphne laughed with pleasure at the memory. "She got Daddy to build a tent at the bottom of the meadow, remember, and organized all of you to be clowns. Laurel was a lion, and Mummy walked the tightrope." "She was rather good at that," said Iris. "Barely fell off the rope. She must've practiced for weeks." "Or else her story was true and she really did spend time in the circus," said Rose. "I can almost believe it of Mummy." Daphne gave a contented sigh. "We were lucky to have a mother like ours, weren't we? So playful, almost as if she hadn't fully grown up, not at all like other people's boring old mothers.

Gulls wheel through spokes of sunlight over gracious roofs and dowdy thatch, snatching entrails at the marketplace and escaping over cloistered gardens, spike-topped walls and treble-bolted doors. Gulls alight on whitewashed gables, creaking pagodas and dung-ripe stables; circle over towers and cavernous bells and over hidden squares where urns of urine sit by covered wells, watched by mule-drivers, mules and wolf-snouted dogs, ignored by hunchbacked makers of clogs; gather speed up the stoned-in Nakashima River and fly beneath the arches of its bridges, glimpsed from kitchen doors, watched by farmers walking high, stony ridges. Gulls fly through clouds of steam from laundries’ vats; over kites unthreading corpses of cats; over scholars glimpsing truth in fragile patterns; over bath-house adulterers; heartbroken slatterns; fishwives dismembering lobsters and crabs; their husbands gutting mackerel on slabs; woodcutters’ sons sharpening axes; candle-makers, rolling waxes; flint-eyed officials milking taxes; etoliated lacquerers; mottled-skinned dyers; imprecise soothsayers; unblinking liars; weavers of mats; cutters of rushes; ink-lipped calligraphers dipping brushes; booksellers ruined by unsold books; ladies-in-waiting; tasters; dressers; filching page-boys; runny-nosed cooks; sunless attic nooks where seamstresses prick calloused fingers; limping malingerers; swineherds; swindlers; lip-chewed debtors rich in excuses; heard-it-all creditors tightening nooses; prisoners haunted by happier lives and ageing rakes by other men’s wives; skeletal tutors goaded to fits; firemen-turned-looters when occasion permits; tongue-tied witnesses; purchased judges; mothers-in-law nurturing briars and grudges; apothecaries grinding powders with mortars; palanquins carrying not-yet-wed daughters; silent nuns; nine-year-old whores; the once-were-beautiful gnawed by sores; statues of Jizo anointed with posies; syphilitics sneezing through rotted-off noses; potters; barbers; hawkers of oil; tanners; cutlers; carters of night-soil; gate-keepers; bee-keepers; blacksmiths and drapers; torturers; wet-nurses; perjurers; cut-purses; the newborn; the growing; the strong-willed and pliant; the ailing; the dying; the weak and defiant; over the roof of a painter withdrawn first from the world, then his family, and down into a masterpiece that has, in the end, withdrawn from its creator; and around again, where their flight began, over the balcony of the Room of the Last Chrysanthemum, where a puddle from last night’s rain is evaporating; a puddle in which Magistrate Shiroyama observes the blurred reflections of gulls wheeling through spokes of sunlight. This world, he thinks, contains just one masterpiece, and that is itself.

Love never makes much sense. It makes men do stupid things that seem more important than the world at the time they’re doing it.

Between good and evil stands free will... Between light and darkness stands faith... Between Heaven and Hell stands the Keepers of the Gate.

The debate over the use of aggression by police officers is an important one for society to learn more about. A number of contemporary police officers may feel some reluctance to put their hands upon a threatening individual, either because of a fear of unfair scrutiny and criticism, or because of the risk of personal civil liability.

As will be discussed in detail below, it is my contention that such reluctance or delay will actually result in the risk of greater police force being used, because the officer who loses the initiative to an assaultive person will experience an instinctive urgency to "catch up" to protect them from the threat.

Here he met Judith Tholon, the woman who was to become the love of his life, but who was married to the keeper of the cemetery. [...] After closing the heavy wrought-iron gates at night, they would wander together amidst the graves under the moonlight.

THIS IS JUST A NORMAL day for you, isn’t it?” Keefe asked as they shivered outside the Sanctuary gates, waiting for Councillor Terik to meet them. “Go to school, find out you’re covered in a dangerous substance, melt off a few layers of skin, and then hail your besty the Councillor, tell him you’re ditching study hall to save the world, and he says, ‘Cool, I’ll come with you!’ 

No, I hate him. And I hate my parents for falling for his ‘I’m a changed elf’ act.” “I don’t think they’ve fallen for anything,” Sophie said gently. “Yes they have. First thing my dad did after he found out Alvar was with the Neverseen was make sure Alvar couldn’t get inside Everglen again. He blocked him from the gates—and changed the locks on the door to his office, just in case—and he told Grizel to use lethal force against him if she needed to. And now he’s letting him move back in?” “I think your parents just . . . want to believe. He’s their son, you know?

As Damien sets off on his perilous quest, I watch the door close behind him, feeling the gravity of the moment. In his absence, Sandra and I are not just two women waiting; we are sentinels guarding the gates, keepers of the flame that must not be extinguished.

Jesus does not give up on anyone, even up to their last breath on this earth. It is only Jesus. He is the Gate Keeper.

Come Neti, my chief keeper of the gates of Kur, and listen carefully to what I say: Lock up and bolt the seven gates of Kur, then, one by one, open each gate and let Innana enter through the crack. Bring her down. But as she enters, take her regal costume from her, take the crown, the necklace, and the beads that fall across her breast, the golden breastplate on her chest, the bracelet and the rod and line. Strip her of everything, even the royal robe, and let the holy priestess of the earth, the queen of heaven, enter here bowed low.

During the horrifying attacks against the United States by terrorists on September 11, 2001, the country experienced the reality of criminal violence en masse. We learned of the actions taken aboard a hijacked airplane by some of its passengers that caused the plane to crash into a field instead of, perhaps, the White House or Capitol building. Americans embraced the actions the passengers took to save those who would otherwise have died-actions that required the application of violent force. The passengers had to impose their wills upon the hijackers in order to thwart their mission. I was struck by the unanimity of that public response to violence. Perhaps it was the unbelievable scale of the devastation, or the catastrophic change in our view of our safety and security, that inspired such vast support for greater enforcement measures to combat threats against America.

Blind fear and prejudice was always developed later in life, whereas children were all the same no matter their race or culture. When they saw someone who looked different than they, it triggered feelings of curiosity, not fear or distrust. They would learn to hate later in life, when they were shown to do so.

protect the ones you love, and fully commit to everything you do.

Muffled footsteps sounded in the distance. Goldie heard a shout, and the heavy clank of punishment chains. The footsteps came closer. A boy began to sing in a hoarse, adolescent voice. "Awa-a-a-y, across the ocean-a-an, awa-a-a-y, across the sea-a-a-a-." There was a slap, and a yell. The singing stopped, but only for a moment. When it started up again, there were a dozen or more voices, all caterwauling at the top of their lungs. "-I'll go-o-o-o where my heart takes me, where my-y-y-y love waits for me-e-e-e-e." A pause. A furious adult's voice said, "It's not your love that's waiting for you, you little villains, it's the House of Repentance! Deliberate destruction of property, putting the lives of others at risk, oh you're in for it, you are!" Clank clank clank, went the punishment chains. "I’ve be-e-e-e-en away so long, dear, I've tra-a-a-aveled far and wi-i-i-i-i-ide-" sang the voices. Goldie edged along the wall and eased the door open. There was a bustle and a shoving and a clanking, and suddenly the corridor in front of her was full of boys, milling backward and forward, rattling their chains and singing loudly. They were all older than Goldie, but they wore the same gray threadbare smock and leggings. Somewhere in the middle of them were two Blessed Guardians. The smell of burning hung over them all. There was no time to think. Goldie couldn't see Toadspit, but she was sure he must be there somewhere. She whispered a quick "thank you" to Bald Thoke, then she stepped out into the corridor and tucked herself between two of the boys. For a heart-stopping moment the song faltered. The boys on either side of Goldie shot incredulous glances at her- Then they closed smoothly around her and began to sing louder than ever, their voices bouncing off the high ceilings. "Three yea-a-a-a-ars I rowed the galley-y-y-ys, three year-a-a-a-ars I was a sla-a-a-a-ave-." They spilled out into the foyer, a laughing, shouting, singing rabble. The Guardians who led them were shouting too. Only Goldie was silent. She crouched between the tall, raucous boys, her smock blending with theirs, her pulse thundering in her ears. "What's this?" shouted the toad-like Guardian. "Where are you taking them at this time of night?" "Set fire to their beds?" shouted one of the other Guardians. "Don't know what's got into them! Marching them off to Repentance!" "I'll need their names!" "If I-I-I-I-I could turn back time, dea-a-a-a-ar, if I-I-I-I-I-I could start aga-a-a-a-a-in-" "For Great Wooden's sake, we'll give them to you when we come back. I can't bear this appalling racket a moment longer!" And with that, the boys, Goldie and the two Guardians spilled out the front door of Care, across the yard and through the gate.

against the hard surface, as if he were weightless.

There are currently thousands of police officers who feel some degree of alienation from the people for whom they risk their lives. They are fearful that if they act according to their training, they will be unfairly judged to have done something wrong. Many officers have reported to me the feeling of anger and betrayal at always being portrayed as the "bad guy" in the media when they take police action. They believe that most of the public buys into the negative image of police often presented by the media and has no idea what police work requires.

In the weeks following September 11, many in America participated in ceremonies to honor the heroism demonstrated by public safety personnel during and after the attack. These individuals ran in the opposite direction from the people fleeing the World Trade Center buildings. They ran toward the threat, not from it, and, in doing so, gave their lives in the attempt to save the innocent victims.

Why, if we feel anguish at the death of over 300 law enforcement officers in the attacks against America on September 11, 2001, do we seek actions in police officers that are less decisive and vigorous in dealing with locally threatening circumstances-thereby placing both the officer and the subject of the police response at much greater risk?

This book will try to answer the above question and to present some solutions. It will explore the causes and conditions behind society's mistrust of law enforcement, and show how that mistrust can lead to tragic consequences. And it will shine a light on areas usually hidden from public view-including the training, professional and political pressures, and mental and physical lives of police officers-that can tip the balance toward life or death for officers and the citizens they have sworn to protect.

Because our perceptions and judgments are determined by our own attitudes and values, people's evaluations of police officers and police work in their communities normally have very little to do with the performance standards within the department. I have listened to harsh, critical comments made about "cops" and been struck by how little most people know about the realities of policing. Denial of the harsh, violent, or dangerous aspects of the world is a commonly used psychological defense that allows us to go about our lives without constant fear of harm. If we were unsuccessful at "blocking out" unpleasant parts of our world, the horror we would feel each day at the violence and suffering that are always taking place would overwhelm us.

In the aftermath of the shooting, John did not experience any sense of relief at having survived the lethal series of assaults. Nor did he gloat over his victory. In fact, he was horrified that he had caused such severe physical damage to another human being. It didn't help that some of his fellow officers seized upon this opportunity to call him "back shooter" and other phrases used in police humor as a way of dealing with the trauma of violence.

When John got home the next morning, his two sons ran to greet him with the same glee and excitement they always showed at his arrival. In the past, John had always rushed to his children upon arriving home and scooped them into his arms. But today, though he had no idea what had changed in him or why, he recoiled from them. He thought, "How can I put these hands on my two sweet boys when they have caused such damage to another person?" He thought of himself as stained, unclean. He did not want to infect his sons or his wife with the feelings of guilt that surged through him.

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I was a Keeper. I kept the bar, providing comfort, courage, and compassion. I kept the Gate, offering safe passage, defending the sanctity and neutrality of this space, this way station. I kept the peace. I kept counsel, that belonging to others and, more often, my own. But most importantly, I kept this community together.

LET THIS COVENANT BIND US, EARTH AND VOID, THE LADY AND THE KEEPERS. TOGETHER WE HOLD THE LINE, TOGETHER WE KEEP OUR SILENCE. I AM BEHOLDEN UNTO NO MAN,  BUT BOUND TO THE VOID. I PLEDGE MY BODY FOR THE GATEKEEPERS, MY LIFE FOR THE GATES, AND MY SOUL FOR THE ETERNITY OF THE STARS.

Entertainment industry doesn’t need someone who is truthful, speaks their mind and has right moral compass. Because the industry is build, sponsored and supported by corporates. The corporates that exploit, extort, bully, human traffic, money laundering ,promotes prostitution and drug use. The corporates that are into dark, evil, abnormally, scary, shameful, disgusting, cults, shady , bad things. If you are talented and good person . They clip your winds, block your shine, destroy you before you rise. That is why there is gate keepers. It is never about art , skill or talent. It is about the person.

In life you must choose If you will be first one to do it in your family, In your hood, amongst your friends or you will be the only one to do It In your family, In your hood, amongst your friends . It Is all possible through you. You choose If you are the key or the gate keeper.

They used their windlasses to take the weight of the paddles, slipped the pawl off the ratchet and then slipped the windlass off the spigot to let the sluice paddles close noisily under their own weight. They then proceeded to the gates in front of the boats and, using the windlasses again, they arduously wound the sluice paddles up. The dark green, filthy water, roared, boiled, bubbled and swirled into the lock and around the boats, bumping them against the lock walls. The boats rose, slowly but inexorably, on the rising water. The lock keeper and Avril, one on each side of the lock, kept the straps taught as the boats were lifted up to the level of the canal beyond the gates. The

Cerberus, the Guardian of the Gates, and the Keeper of Souls. He’s the one responsible for making sure souls stay in the Underworld.

Hang on,” Keefe interrupted, turning to Alvar. “You seriously allowed them to erase your memories, torture you, drug you, abandon you, almost kill you—and let you rot for months in a miserable prison cell—all in hopes that the Council would move you back to Everglen so you could . . . open a gate?” “It was not about the task,” Vespera answered for Alvar. “It was about proving his value.” “By opening a gate,” Keefe insisted. “That’s . . . the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard in my life.

All answers lie beyond the gate of experience.

Be proactive at protecting your sanity; extricate from your circle the harpies of negative energies. Be as vigilant as a gate keeper, for they will seek entrance to your sanctum only to wreak havoc and create disharmony. Not every patron needs to be granted entrance to you place of happiness.

I’m sorry, Sophie told him. That sounds super stressful. It is—but don’t worry, I’m keeping my temper under control. I almost lost it when they first opened the gates to let Alvar in, but I’d told Biana to kick me to distract me. That got me through—plus a couple of wicked bruises. Word of advice, never let Biana near your shins.

Sophie told herself she was running because she didn’t want to be late. Not because she was trying to put some distance between herself and her horde of bodyguards—and definitely not because she’d spotted a familiar figure standing next to the glowing bars of Everglen’s massive gate. Apparently, she was lying to herself a lot that day.

I’m sure. Hopefully you won’t get tangled in any more chandeliers.” Fitz groaned. “I never should’ve told you that story.” “But you did! And it’s officially my favorite!” His cheeks turned the most adorable shade of pink. “Yeah, well I—” “You should be closing these gates—not standing there flirting!” Bo snapped, and Sophie decided she was officially Team Ro. “Glare at me all you want,” Bo told her, “but there’s no point surrounding a property with fancy glowing bars if you’re going to leave the gate wide open while you blush at each other.” “In case you were wondering,” Flori told Fitz, “we all think Bo is the worst.

BRAMBLE RULES No time-outs. Abilities are allowed. Tackling is also allowed—but no knocking anyone into the lake! (That one’s for you, Biana!) Covering the ball in anything from Slurps and Burps is definitely cheating! (Looking at you, Keefe!) Pretending to be injured and then tackling someone who tries to help you is also cheating. (Another one for you, Keefe.) Losers owe the winners a dare. Winners get to eat all the mallowmelt in the kitchen. (And no, Keefe—I’m not scared. Get ready to lose!) BASE QUEST RULES Both teams’ bases have to be within the main gate. The team that chooses their base first has to quest first. No hiding muskogs in someone’s base! (We all know that wasn’t a “random muskog encounter,” Keefe!) Abilities are allowed. (But staying invisible the whole time makes playing with you super boring, Alvar!) There’s no prize for winning. (Because you guys get way too competitive!)

Jesus is the keeper of the gates of paradise and before every believing soul he setteth an open door, which no man or devil shall be able to close against it.

I do not seek my "kind" of love to make a point, become a member of a cult, or even stay with a fad or phase. God knows! it isn't for something as stupid or wasteful as politics! The love I seek is genuine, pure, and beats strongly within the fragile heart of a poet. I seek healing. I seek...HOME!

We were two halves to a whole. Water, the mother of creation. Land, the father who supported it. We were forever joined, our souls tethered. In this moment, the truth came to life: Whether the gate closed or not, I would never be whole without this man by my side.

Move, you old bat. You have to try! She pushed hard to get her weight off the table. Her legs could barely support her as they wobbled under her weight. Move! You have to move! She slowly placed one foot in front of the other. With how exhausted she was, it was like learning how to walk for the first time. Addel hobbled from her room and headed toward Dragot’s chamber, but she could hear him screaming and pounding the walls long before she got there.