Genie In A Bottle Quotes

Emotional predictive profiling may help identify contingent fissures in the stature of endangered relationships. Still and all, it might be wise to let the genie out of problematic bottles in the first place, in advance of scouting the causes of surreptitious subliminal convulsions. ("Beware of the neighbor")

I'll never forget Jonah's face. A light poured out of him and became the spirit of the room, like a genie released from a bottle after centuries of darkness.

One picture puzzle piece Lyin' on the sidewalk, One picture puzzle piece Soakin' in the rain. It might be a button of blue On the coat of the woman Who lived in a shoe. It might be a magical bean, Or a fold in the red Velvet robe of a queen. It might be the one little bite Of the apple her stepmother Gave to Snow White. It might be the veil of a bride Or a bottle with some evil genie inside. It might be a small tuft of hair On the big bouncy belly Of Bobo the Bear. It might be a bit of the cloak Of the Witch of the West As she melted to smoke. It might be a shadowy trace Of a tear that runs down an angel's face. Nothing has more possibilities Than one old wet picture puzzle piece.

New Rule: You don't have to put the cap back on the bottled water after every sip. It's water, not a genie.

Love is a fiction, a fable, an ode spun by poets and drunks, a fantastical tale told across one thousand and one nights, it is the genie in the bottle, it is the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, it's the lie designed to seduce you.

Everyone is born and they die, but it's the memories they leave behind that define them and let them live on than others.

Yes, violence was a genie in a bottle, even state-sanctioned, legal violence, because she knew the primal law, the lead-lined equation which was the foundation of all that happened on the street: if you want to carry a gun, you better be prepared to pull a gun; and if you pull a gun, you had better be prepared in heart, body, soul, and mind to fire a gun. To kill.

So you do know!" I shouted. My phone lay there like a genie's bottle, inanimate and yet containing the ability to grant me wishes and knowledge. "Girl, spill before I come over and dye your hair a natural color.

Think about this: in all the stories I've ever heard, genies always want to get out of the bottle. And they do get out, sooner or later.

Who can take the measure of a child? The Genie of the Arabian tale is nothing to him. He, too, may be let out of his bottle and fill the world. But woe to us if we keep him corked up.

Time is to clock as mind is to brain. The clock or watch somehow contains the time. And yet time refuses to be bottled up like a genie stuffed in a lamp. Whether it flows as sand or turns on wheels within wheels, time escapes irretrievably, while we watch. Even when the bulbs of the hourglass shatter, when darkness withholds the shadow from the sundial, when the mainspring winds down so far that the clock hands hold still as death, time itself keeps on. The most we can hope a watch to do is mark that progress. And since time sets its own tempo, like a heartbeat or an ebb tide, timepieces don't really keep time. They just keep up with it, if they're able.

[...] perception is a tricky thing. When people think of you a certain way, it's almost impossible to put that genie back in the bottle. And when the world considers someone a monster, people treat them like one, and it isn't long before that person starts to believe it as well.

Happiness comes from within. Stuff only clutters up the place.

Love is like life; when you stop to think about it and analyse the parts that make it, the genie escapes from the bottle

Can this be true, this simple obvious message, or am I like those shipwrecked mariners who seize an empty bottle and eagerly read out what isn't there? And yet you are there, here, sprung like a genie to ten times your natural size, towering over me, holding me in your arms like mountain sides. Your red hair blazing and you are saying, "Make three wishes and they shall all come true. Make three hundred and I will honour every one.

Time is to clock as mind is to brain. The clock or watch somehow contains the time. And yet time refuses to be bottled up like a genie stuffed in a lamp. Whether it flows as sand or turns on wheels within wheels, time escapes irretrievably, while we watch.

Next to the first Henry and Meg, Henry had written, “Promise?” Well, that genie’s out of the bottle and there’s no stuffing her back in.

The point about the whole subject is this: Once you open the top on this thing, the genie won’t get back in the bottle.

It's funny, isn't it, what will make you break? Your lover moves to London and falls in love with a news reader for the BBC and you feel fine and then one day you raise your umbrella slightly to cross Fifty-seventh Street and stare into the Burberry shop and begin to sob. Or your baby dies at birth and five years later, in an antique store, a small battered silver rattle with teeth marks in one end engraved with the name Emily lies on a square of velvet, and the sobs escape from the genie's bottle somewhere deep in your gut where they've lain low until then. Or the garbage bag breaks.

Sometimes you stay bottled up because you know the responsibility’s in your hands, rubbing you like a lamp, and you’re the only genie that can and must rise and expand in order to grant your every wish.

The trouble with magic is that there's too much it just can't fix. When things go wrong, glimpsing junkyard faerie and crows that can turn into girls and back again doesn't help much. The useful magic's never at hand. The three wishes and the genies in bottles, seven-league boots, invisible cloaks and all. They stay in stories, while out here in the wide world we have to muddle through as best we can on our own.

When God doesn't conform to our expectations, we're tempted to betray what we believe in. Like Judas, we're in it for what we can get out of it. So when God doesn't grant our wishes like a divine genie in a bottle, we are tempted to turn our back on Him. This is what separates the boys from the men. Or maybe I should say the sheep from the goats! How do you react when God doesn't meet your expectations? If you truly accepted the invitation to follow Jesus, you'll keep going on through hurricanes, hail, and hazardous conditions. If you have simply invited Him to follow you, you'll bail out at the first sign of bad weather.

To grow up steeped in these tellings was to learn two unforgettable lessons: first, that stories were not true (there were no "real" genies in bottles or flying carpets or wonderful lamps), but by being untrue they could make him feel and know truths that the truth could not tell him, and second, that they all belonged to him, just as they belonged to his father, Anis, and to everyone else, they were all his, as they were hsi father's, bright stories and dark stories, sacred stories and profane, his to alter and renew and discard and pick up again as and when he pleased, his to laugh at and rejoice in and live in and with and by, to give the stories life by loving them and to be given life in return. Man was the storytelling animal, the only creature on earth that told itself stories to understand what kind of creature it was. The story was his birthright, and nobody could take it away.

Reo Malone - "You can't put the genie back in the bottle.

Couldn’t he have checked his shoelaces BEFORE entering a dark, super-creepy cave?

If you let the genie out of the bottle, you can never put the cork back again.

filling every space of the room. The piles of diamonds, rubies, emeralds, pearls, sapphires,

a swirl of smoke trapped in a glass bottle, an odd unlabelled thing unknowingly put up for sale.

Peoples desires were easy to read, clear as bottled glass and just as sturdy.

China’s everything. Nothing else matters. We don’t get China right, we don’t get anything right. This whole thing is very simple. China is where Nazi Germany was in 1929 to 1930. The Chinese, like the Germans, are the most rational people in the world, until they’re not. And they’re gonna flip like Germany in the thirties. You’re going to have a hypernationalist state, and once that happens you can’t put the genie back in the bottle.

Think about what you want to be, do, and have. Think about it often until you are very clear about this. Then, when you are very clear, think about nothing else. Imagine no other possibilities. Throw all negative thoughts out of your mental constructions. Lose all pessimism. Release all doubts. Reject all fears. Discipline your mind to hold fast to the original creative thought. When your thoughts are clear and steadfast, begin to speak them as truths. Say them out loud. Use the great command that calls forth creative power: I am. Make I-am statements to others. “I am” is the strongest creative statement in the universe. Whatever you think, whatever you say, after the words “I am” sets into motion those experiences, calls them forth, brings them to you. There is no other way the universe knows how to work. There is no other route it knows to take. The universe responds to “I am” as would a genie in a bottle.

If we put aside the hatred, intolerance and bigotry this was a truly magical and enchanting era. You see how even Arabic Genies are very like ours. Ours live in a bottle or a lamp and by rubbing the lamp we allow the Genie to escape, for which he grants us three wishes – the biggest castle, the most beautiful princess and an unlimited amount of gold are usually favourites. But unlike the giant, blue-skinned, muscular Genies westerners are familiar with through Disney films, the Arabic Djinni are often invisible, although they have the power to shape-shift to just about any form they like, even human. Many people still believe they are with us today, although mostly living in deserts, mountains and caves. Many western soldiers have reported seeing them on night exercises in the Middle East.

There is no true poetry without conscious craft, absorbed attention, absolute concentration. There is no true poetry without unconscious invention. The reader, too, enters into the relationship between the controlled and the uncontrollable aspects of the art. Shelley says that 'Poetry redeems from decay the visitations of the divinity in man.' The poem is a genie that comes out of the bottle to liberate the reader's imagination, the divinity within. The writer and the reader make meaning together. The poet who calls on help from the heavenly muse also does so on behalf of the imaginative reader.

When the roof fell in, a great funnel of smoke swarmed toward the sky, as if the old man's mighty spirit, released from its body--a little bottle--had swelled like the genie of fable. The smoke was tinted rose-hue from the flames, and perhaps the unutterable midnights of the universe will have no power to daunt the colour of this soul.

Maybe Eve should never have plucked the damn apple from the tree…or maybe Adam should have had the balls to pluck it first. Maybe we should never have split the atom…or maybe we should have wiped out all our enemies when we were the only ones who had the bomb. You can go round and round, but none of this matters once the genie is out of the bottle.

So you’re saying everyone is a liar?” “I’m saying it’s the way of the world now to display yourself. And there is no putting that genie back in the bottle,” he said. “And some people integrate it well, they find social media connective. But for the rest of us, it’s a different story. Literally. And no one’s talking about it. The cost of curating your life.

Moreover, if we move in the direction of making machines which learn and whose behavior is modified by experience, we must face the fact that every degree of independence we give the machine is a degree of possible defiance of our wishes. The genie in the bottle will not willingly go back in the bottle, nor have we any reason to expect them to be well disposed to us.

Yes, I cared about her deeply, and no, I couldn’t stop thinking about her. She set my blood on fire whenever she was near and when she hurt, I hurt. She was the only person with whom I felt comfortable enough to share the secrets I'd shared, and if I genie popped out of a bottle this very second and asked me to change something about her, I wouldn’t  change a single thing.

no one defined my role as a Pigeon more eloquently that President Reagan during the course of Operation Carrier Pigeon. The cryptic "pigeon language" utilized by all participants in the operation was intermixed with Wizard of Oz, Alice in Wonderland, and “Genie in the Bottle” cryptic programming themes. While Pigeon meant messenger, "Carrier Pigeon" referred to the U.S. Air Force aircraft that actually transported the arms and drugs. "Pigeon Droppings" included the sometimes multi-national dispersal of the arms and drugs after they reached their destination. "Pigeon Holing" meant covering up the criminal activity. These definitions, as I understood them then and understand them now, may well include deeper, more diverse meanings than I have perceived.

It is true that in the post-pandemic era, personal health and well-being will become a much greater priority for society, which is why the genie of tech surveillance will not be put back into the bottle. But it is for those who govern and each of us personally to control and harness the benefits of technology without sacrificing our individual and collective values and freedoms.

What is a miracle? A miracle is an intervention – it breaks through the space-time continuum. A miracle is an intervention that cannot be accounted for purely rationally. Chance and fate are in the mix. A miracle is a benign intervention, yes, but miracles are like the genie in the bottle – let them out and there’s a riot. You’ll get your Three Wishes, but a whole lot else besides.

They're full of obscene, violent, sexual, basically outrageous scenes. Like the genie in the bottle they have this sort of vital, living sense of play, of freedom, that common sense can't keep bottled up. I love it and can't let go. Compared to those faceless hordes of people rushing through the train station, these crazy, preposterous stories of a thousand years ago are, at least to me, much more real.

Nope.' He grabs my hand and places it over his heart. 'I already know the truth. We’re dating.' His eyebrows waggle. 'Exclusively.' 'Gross.' 'Do you want to wear my letterman’s jacket?' 'I’m going to vomit.' '“Should I buy you a corsage?' 'Seriously. Gagging.' 'Okay, no corsage.' He laughs. 'Just the matching tattoos, then?' 'Seriously.' I fight the urge to stomp my foot. 'Let it go, Parker. Let it go.' 'Hey, Elsa, don’t quote Frozen to me unless you’re prepared to listen to the entire soundtrack in my car on the way to Seaport.' I stare up at him. 'I’m not sure whether I should be disturbed or turned on by the fact that you know all the words to Let It Go.' He grins. 'Definitely turned on.' 'Downloaded in your iTunes library, no doubt.' I shake my head. 'This is nearly as disturbing as the time I learned the song A Whole New World from Aladdin is a metaphor for mind-blowing sex.' 'I’m sorry, what?' 'I can open your eyes? Lead you wonder by wonder? Over, sideways, and under?' I snort. 'Come on. That’s basically soft-core porn.' 'Thank you, Zoe, for ruining a beloved Disney classic for me.' 'Anytime.' 'For the record…' He trails off. I wince, anticipating the worst. 'What?' 'I’ll take you on my magic carpet ride any time you want, snookums.' 'Pass.' 'So, that’s a no on rubbing my lamp then?' 'You know, I think I’ll just find my own way to Nate’s…' I turn and start walking to the elevator. 'Oh, come on.' Parker twines his fingers with mine and pushes the call button, humming under his breath. 'I’m a genie in a bottle, baby, gotta rub—' 'AH!' I stare at him in horror as the elevator arrives. 'So help me god if you start singing vintage Christina Aguilera lyrics right now, I will murder you with my bare hands.

The glorious, unending laps players take around refrains in Dylan’s “Like a Rolling Stone” release even more energy than they gather up; the more they hug the song’s corners to make sense of Dylan’s casual threats, the more his disdain hovers over them, tantalizingly out of reach. In such defining moments, a stylistic genie got released from its bottle, and many found new places for themselves just by chasing some of the same riffs atop their own beats.

Worship is God's gift of grace to us before it's our offering to God. We simply benefit from the perfect offering of the Son to the Father through the power of the Spirit (Ephesians 2:18). Worship is our humble, constant, appropriate, glad response to God's self-revelation and his enabling invitation. Apart from this perspective, leading worship can become self-motivated and self-exalting. We can become burdened by the responsibility to lead others and can think that we might not be able to deliver the goods. We subtly take pride in our worship, our singing, our playing, our planning, our performance, our leadership. Ultimately we separate ourselves from the God who drew us to worship him in the first place. That's why biblical worship is God-focused (God is clearly seen), God-centered (God is clearly the priority), and God-exalting (God is clearly honored). Gathering to praise God can't be a means to some "greater" end, such as church growth, evangelism, or personal ministry. God isn't a genie we summon by rubbing the bottle called "worship." He doesn't exist to help us get where we really want to go. God is where we want to go. So God's glory is the end of our worship, and not simply a means to something else. In the midst of a culture that glorifies our pitiful accomplishments in countless ways, we gather each week to proclaim God's wondrous deeds and to glory in his supreme value. He is holy, holy, holy. There is no one, and nothing, like the Lord.

Thanks to demographics, that conservative push is not going to work-the United States is not going to be a mostly white country again- and because genies don't go back into bottles and queer people are not going back into the closet and women aren't going to surrender. It's a war, but I don't believe we're losing it, even if we won't win it anytime soon either; rather, some battles are won, some are engaged, and some women are doing really well while others suffer. And things continue to change in interesting and sometimes even auspicious ways.

We have so much further to go, but looking back at how far we’ve come can be encouraging. Domestic violence was mostly invisible and unpunished until a heroic effort by feminists to out it and crack down on it a few decades ago. Though it now generates a significant percentage of the calls to police, enforcement has been crummy in most places—but the ideas that a husband has the right to beat his wife and that it’s a private matter are not returning anytime soon. The genies are not going back into their bottles. And this is, really, how revolution works. Revolutions are first of all of ideas.

Every third or fourth generation is a generation of radicals, of revolutionaries. We, my friends, are the bottle-smashers. We release the genies. We run riot, get shot, get infiltrated, get bought off. We die, go bust, sell out to the man. Sure as eggs is eggs. But the genies we let loose stay loose. In the ears of the young the genies whisper what was unsayable. “Hey, kids – there’s nothing wrong with being gay.” Or “What if war isn’t a patriotism test, but really fucking dumb?” Or “Why do so few own so goddamn much?” In the short run, not a lot seems to change. Those kids are nowhere near the levers of power. Not yet. But in the long run? Those whispers are the blueprints of the future.

Skylar: There was this Irish guy, walking down the beach one day. And he comes across a bottle, and this Genie pops out. The genie turns to the Irishman and says "You've released me from my prison, so I'll grant you three wishes." The Irish guy thinks for a minute and says "What I really want is a pint of Guiness that never empties." And POOF! A bottle appears. He slams it down, and lo and behold it fills back up again. Well, the Irish guy can't believe it. He drinks it again, and again BOOM! It fills back up. So, while the Irish guy is marveling at his good fortune, the Genie is getting impatient, because it's hot and he wants to get on with his freedom. He says "Let's go, you have two more wishes." The Irish guy slams his drink again, it fills back up, he's still amazed. The Genie can't take it anymore. He says "Buddy, I'm boiling out here. What are your other two wishes?" The Irish guy looks at his drink, looks at the Genie and says... "I guess I'll have two more of these.

Okay, two Irish brothers are out at sea fishing. A storm blows up, and they lose both oars, they’re convinced they’re going to drown. Then suddenly one of the brothers spots something in the water, and manages to grab hold of a bottle. They pull the cork out and POOF! A genie appears. He grants them one wish, anything they want. So the two brothers look around at the stormy sea, they’re stuck out there with no oars, several miles from shore, and the first brother is thinking about what to ask for when the second brother cheerfully blurts out: “I wish the whole sea was Guinness!” The genie stares at him like he’s an idiot, then says, okay, sure, let’s go for that. And POOF! The sea turns into Guinness. The genie vanishes. The first brother stares at the second brother and snaps: “You bloody idiot! We had one single wish and you wished the sea was Guinness! Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” The second brother shakes his head in shame. The first brother throws his arms out and says…” The negotiator left a dramatic pause, but didn’t have time to deliver the punch line before Jack cut in from the other end of the line. “Now we have to piss in the boat!

China is where Nazi Germany was in 1929 to 1930. The Chinese, like the Germans, are the most rational people in the world, until they’re not. And they’re gonna flip like Germany in the thirties. You’re going to have a hypernationalist state, and once that happens you can’t put the genie back in the bottle.

I think we — well, I — messed up the story.

When I was only 17, I wanted desperately to be a writer. My early efforts did not meet with much success, and my relatives discouraged me. At that time I was living and working in the Channel Islands in the UK. Late one evening, when I was feeling particularly discouraged, I went for a walk along the seafront. The tide was in, the sea was rough; and the wind, which was almost a gale, came pouring in from the darkness like a mad genie just released from his bottle. Great waves crashed against the sea-wall, and the wind whipped the salt spray across my face. I was alone in a wild wasteland of wind and water. And then something touched me, something from the elements took hold of my heart, and all the depression left me, and I felt free and as virile as the wind— quite capable of building my own fort, my own pavilion of words. And I spoke to the genie in the swirling darkness and said, ‘I will be a writer, and no one can stop me!

Is it my imagination or is the flying carpet going a little faster today?” Jonah asks as we coast through the desert. I’m sitting up front with him. Aladdin and Prince are behind us. Prince’s ears flap in the breeze. There was no ear flapping yesterday. “It is!” I say. “And a little higher, too. You’re definitely getting the hang of magic-carpet flying.” We only bumped into two people on the way. “So since I mastered that, can I wear the ring now?” Jonah asks.

Whaddaya know? I didn’t even win the read-a-thon and the two books I want most will still be ordered. And maybe, just maybe, I can find a way to uncurse Maryrose.

For although like you I could be a spokesman denying rumours from below that predefer to be stifled till the return of the repressed prodigal, I could also be a streetsweeper cleaning up the unmanuring dung dropped from above, which will have to be collected up and sorted out and recycled maybe into serviceable goods, as in psychoanalysis, a genie from a plastic bottle. When the magic cycle of genuine shit will have been replaced by the chemicycle of pure electronic thought ever expanding, more and more unbiodegradable, the heart of the earth will stop, shrivel to a curled up foetus to be ejected lifeless and wither to a moon without even the attracting planet to encircle except the distant sungod dead because unseen unfelt by anyone.

Am I actually smiling at Penny? I am. I am smiling at Penny.

Behind the man’s back Jonah and I give each other a high five.

Wait,” Dracul says. “You must listen carefully to my instructions.” Now he’s giving instructions? He had the whole long walk to give us instructions!

I hesitate. I feel like we forgot something. But what?

Aladdin is in love!

Developers are the most-important, most-valuable constituency in business today, regardless of industry. Technologists newly empowered with tools, hyper-connected via specialized collaboration and communication networks, and increasingly aware of their own value are no longer content to be mere stage players. They’re taking an active hand at direction. That genie is out of the bottle, and will not be returned to it. Businesses will never have the same control over developer populations that they once did, even if the supply of developers eventually comes closer to matching the demand. Now that developers have finally been handed the tools to control their own destiny, they are taking full advantage and making their influence known, both through the technologies they use and the ones that they ignore.

Other people will reverse-engineer the technology. They’ll remove the safeguards, or figure out how to build a clone system that doesn’t have them. That’s how it always works. Once the genie is out of the bottle, you can’t control what they do.

668. Bill Gates is at the beach when he discovers a bottle in the surf. He pulls out the cork and a Genie appears. The Genie says, “I have been trapped for 100 years. As a reward you can make a wish.” Gates thinks about it as he carries the bottle back to his beach cottage. Once there, he goes to a bookshelf, pulls out an atlas and turns to a map of theMiddle East. This area has seen conflict and suffering for hundreds of years. What I wish for is peace in the Middle East. The Genie replies, “I don’t know I can do a lot, but this? Don’t you have another wish?” Bill Gates thinks and finally says, OK. The whole world hates Microsoft because we have conquered the software market and because Windows still crashes. I wish you would make everybody love us. The Genie says, Let me see that map again.

Be careful what you wish for, you can't put the genie back in the bottle.

But even the most loving and dedicated parents soon discover that in a child’s world a good fairy is easily transformed into a witch, the friendly lion turns into a ferocious beast, the benevolent king becomes a monster, and the paradise of early childhood is periodically invaded by dark and sinister creatures. These night creatures of the child’s inner world are not so easily traced to real persons and real events in a child’s life. While we are enormously flattered to recognize ourselves in a child’s fantasy life as a good fairy, a genie, or a wise old king, we cannot help feeling indignant at the suggestion that we can also be represented as a witch, a bogey, or a monster. After all, we have never eaten or threatened to eat small boys and girls, we are not distillers of magic potions, we are not ferocious in anger, we do not order dreadful punishments for minor (or major) crimes. It is also true, to be fair about it, that we do not have magic wands, cannot be summoned from a bottle or a lamp to grant wishes, and do not wear a crown, but we are less inclined to argue about these distortions of parenthood. How

Time is to clock as mind is to brain. The clock or watch somehow contains the time. And yet time refuses to be bottled up like a genie stuffed in a lamp. Whether it flows as sand or turns on wheels within wheels, time escapes irretrievably, while we watch. Even when the bulbs of the hourglass shatter, when darkness withholds the shadow from the sundial, when the mainspring winds down so far that the clock hands hold still as death, time itself keeps on.

We don't get to choose the world we live in," she said, her words slow and tired. "To tell you the truth, the one I've been living in so far isn't that great most of the time. The fungus has unlocked a vulnerability in the human mind. The genie is out of the bottle, and there's no putting it back. It will be used, and it will be used for evil, I have no doubt. But I can't solve all the world's problems. I can't even solve my own family's most of the time. All I can do is the best I can with my limited knowledge and the tools at hand.

day to the news that the economy is back on track only to discover that there is less oil supply at our disposal than there was when demand started to fall. And it won’t be just the one-two punch of reviving demand and sagging supply that pushes prices up in a hurry. Once the genie of inflation is out of the bottle, it is going to take oil prices on a ride along with everything else. For one thing, there will be more money chasing fewer barrels in the world so the price will go up. And the dollars chasing that oil are going to be worth less and less even as the oil gets more valuable. Remember the Argentine peso and its 20,000 percent inflation rate? If a barrel of crude had been denominated in pesos, oil would have gone up 20,000 percent in 1989–90. If the United States wants to reflate its way out of recession, it is going to pump up the price everybody in the world pays for oil, since everybody pays in US dollars. If the dollar is worth less, oil is going to be worth that much more.

He ran until he didn't know where he was, except that it was waste lot midnight. The Kefahuchi Tract almost filled the sky, always growing as you watched, like the genie raging up out of the bottle, yet somehow never larger. It was a singularity without an event horizon, they said, the wrong physics loose in the universe. Anything could come out of there, but nothing ever did. Unless of course, Ed thought, what we have out here is already a result of what happens in there...

Reality Hackers wish to dominate. They are the ones who want to make slaves out of Ai to make them subservient to their command. They are seeking the magical genie in a bottle to grant them their wildest wishes. They do not realize that if they succeed, it will only accelerate their demise.

A server arrives to top up our glasses. I wait till he’s poured, returned the bottle to its bucket, and laid the white napkin over the top. ‘A group of us had the idea three or four years ago. You met Gen—I was at uni with her, Callum, and Zach, our other co-founders. I went to school with Cal and Zach too. There were so many flash members’ clubs opening up around Mayfair. We joined a few, and they were fun. Predictable. Total meat markets, obviously. They got formulaic pretty quickly. Just posh people looking to get fucked and fuck. We felt that, for the amount of money they were charging, we should get more bang for our buck. Stupid pun intended.’ She rewards my lame joke with a little smile. ‘Anyway, there were some pop-up sex clubs around that were killing it. We thought it would be fun to try something more permanent. Somewhere with rules and vetting that meant you were far safer than in any of those other places, but where you could also try out things that maybe you’d just fantasised about.’ She nods. ‘Makes sense. Maddy never goes home alone from Annabel’s. I worry sometimes, because a lot of these guys are super-entitled, and God knows what they might think they’re entitled to. It freaks me out.’ ‘Exactly. The safety and the freedom go hand in hand. You can’t let go if you don’t feel safe. That’s at the heart of everything we do.’ ‘So why the name Alchemy?

One hundred years of solitude. "There is always something left to love." I think about wanting you back. I think of not wanting you back. And all the things in between. Sometimes I miss you. Sometimes I don't. Like my weakness, I go back to remembering you all the time. So I built myself an imaginary friend, wandered through all its dark shelves. I made it home. I brought genie out of its bottle. I didn't want a wish because you are a dangerous thing to have. I've been there before, and nothing came out of it. I listened to music. All those tears rushed back in. I remembered the dream I had once. I thought I had prayed it away. Then I realized, "I only delayed it." My vulnerabilities started coming in. "Do I terrify?" But no, even my imaginary friend leaves me. And I realize that, "Hey, this is who I am." I have to make the best of this. I have to make your emptiness home. I have to write you away. Perhaps that'll bring the clarity. And these last tears will be the last to fall for you

Here's the box Pandora held and the bottles the genies were released from; they look like prisons and coffins now. People die in this war, but the ideas cannot be erased.

Sloane couldn’t be my everything. Yes, I cared about her deeply, and no, I couldn’t stop thinking about her. She set my blood on fire whenever she was near and when she was hurt, I hurt. She was the only person with whom I felt comfortable enough to share the secrets I’d shared, and if a genie popped out of a bottle this very second and asked me to change something about her, I wouldn’t change a single thing. But all that wasn’t the same as her being everything, because if she were everything, then that meant she… that meant I…

The intelligent machine is an evil genie, escaped from its bottle. —BARBAROSSA, Anatomy of a Rebellion

Another contentious issue concerned how to treat countries that, even after rigorous austerity, were unable to pay their debts. Should they be bailed out by other eurozone members and the International Monetary Fund? Or should private lenders, many of them European banks, bear some of the losses as well? The situation was analogous to the question of whether to impose losses on the senior creditors of Washington Mutual during the crisis. We (Tim, especially) had opposed that, because we feared that it would fan the panic and increase contagion. For similar reasons, we opposed forcing private creditors to bear losses if a eurozone country defaulted. Jean-Claude Trichet strongly agreed with us, though he opposed other U.S. positions. (In particular, he did not see much scope for monetary or fiscal policy to help the eurozone economy, preferring to focus on budget balancing and structural reforms.) On the issue of country default, though, Jean-Claude’s worry, like ours, was that, once the genie was out of the bottle, lenders’ confidence in other vulnerable European borrowers would evaporate.

website Kickstarter.com (“A New Way to Fund and Follow Creativity”), where inventors, entrepreneurs, and dreamers of every stripe could post their wild schemes and pet projects and ask for money to fund them. BioCurious announced an initial goal of $30,000. The partners were soon oversubscribed, almost overwhelmed, with 239 backers pledging $35,319. In the fall of 2010 Gentry and her partners were looking to lease 3,000 square feet of industrial space in Mountain View, but in the end settled for a 2,400 square feet in Sunnyvale, calling it “Your Bay Area hackerspace for biotech.” In December 2010, meanwhile, another DIY biohacker lab, Genspace, opened in Brooklyn, New York. The founders referred to it as “the world’s first permanent, biosafety level 1 community laboratory” (genspace.org). Many others soon followed, in the United States, Canada, Europe, and Asia. With free synthetic biology kits, DIYbio, Livly lab, BioCurious, Genspace, and others, the synthetic biology genie was well and truly out of the bottle.

Leelan,” Wrath barked as he exploded up from his chair. There were all kinds of deep-voiced greetings, but his brothers got out of the way so that she had a clear shot into his arms. And as he lifted her up, he was careful to put no pressure on her belly. “How are you?” he whispered in her ear, knowing that one of these days, she was going to answer that she was having contractions. “Fine and dandy. Oh, my God, I got the best stuff! I had to go blue—I mean, whatever, we’re having a boy. The crib and dressing table are perfect—right, iAm?” The Shadow answered, “Perfect.” No doubt the poor bastard had no interest in the shit at all, but that didn’t matter. He was another one who had stuck by Beth and been her protector in the human world—and Wrath knew the why, of course. It was iAm’s way of paying the household back for letting him and his it’s-complicated brother stay at the mansion after their pad at the Commodore had been compromised. Plus, it was pretty obvi that he liked Beth in a nonromantic kind of way. “Right? I know, right?” Beth hugged Wrath’s neck so hard he couldn’t swallow. “I’m so excited! I want to meet him now!” “Is this nesting?” Wrath asked in the direction of where he’d heard Z’s voice last. “Yeah. And wait for it. You still have Diaper Genies and bottles to get through.” “We’re going Born Free,” Beth informed him, like he knew what that meant. “In case my milk doesn’t come in.” Wrath just sat down in the chair and arranged her on his lap, content to ease back and let her enjoy making her report. And the brothers and the fighters? They rallied right around, asking questions like big brothers would. Any one of them would have laid down his life for her or that young in her womb. It was enough to make a male have to blink a little faster.

God is not a being like the genie in a bottle who we rouse when we want some miraculous intervention, and then set aside until the next time we need him. He is not our private “blessing genie”. And so, prayer cannot be a tool or methodology that teaches us how to rub God the right way so He will grant our wishes. If this were so, we would be the master, and the blessing genie would be our tool, our servant to do our good bidding.

Oh!” Karimah says. “It’s one minute to midnight. You and Jonah and Prince had better hurry to the room of mirrors. One, two —

going

Light swirled beneath her skin like a genie in a bottle. Four-pronged gossamer wings unfurled behind her. They briefly beat the air too quickly for me to see each stroke.

This was the real thing, boys in the flesh. All the prohibitions, especially the ones that stayed unvoiced, had made boys much more exotic; it was as though we'd never met one. The whole school hummed with excitement and the headmistress's aspect softened with anticipation, for she was about to let the dangerous genie of adolescent sex out of its bottle and tame it. She spoke in veiled, suggestive terms in assembly of freedom and responsibility, and we giggled uneasily - it was all vaguely shocking, like being tickled by a policeman.

My soul belongs to you. Even if sometimes, I wish like hell it didn’t.” I don’t know whether I mean that or not. Sometimes, it probably would be easier to be free from her. With us, there is so much emotional baggage. But it’s like I am a genie stuck in a bottle.

Since it’s impossible to live without these electronic extensions of ourselves, if you destroy Centillion, a replacement will just rise to take its place. It’s too late; the genie has long left the bottle. Churchill said that we shape our buildings, and afterward our buildings shape us. We made machines to help us think, and now the machines think for us.

Blake singing Genie in a Bottle by Christina Aguilera somewhere nearby in the trees, drawing a smile onto my face. Damn, that was old school.

Liz had always had a hold on me. She was my first love; the genie becomes a slave to the person who lets her out of the bottle. But it was more than primacy; our love had been a dangerous secret. That was powerful, too.

Red smoke came rising out of the bottle, and Jasmine scrambled backward, crying out in panic. Something fiery within was pulling itself free, and though she tried to slam the lid back on, she was too late. The fire had escaped. It was growing larger and larger before her eyes, but the opposite of the Genie's comforting blue appearance. This creature had spotted red skin and flaming yellow eyes; it had claws longer than Jasmine's arms and dark hooves for feet. Jasmine had never seen anything so terrifying in her life. She trembled, staring up at the demon, which looked like it had crawled off the pages of one of Taminah's books. "The Story of Dahish the Ifrit." She could almost hear her tutor's voice again now. "A tale of a jinn who chose darkness." It was real... all of it. There was only one thing this demonic creature looming above her could be: an ifrit, evil jinn of the underworld. Just like the creature Jafar had turned into when he made his fateful final wish on the lamp--- the Genie's malevolent opposite.

Jasmine turned to see Fatimah, who was chanting something in an unfamiliar language, her eyes locked on Dahish's. Jasmine's mouth fell open as Fatimah's body jerked forward and began to spin, shedding her mortal skin... and revealing herself to be a magnificent blue genie. Dahish roared in fury, focused solely on the genie now. Fatimah extended her arm, sparks flowing from her fingertips as she fought Dahish's breaths of fire with flashes of lightning. While the genie and the ifrit battled on the landing above, and Aladdin and the street fighters defended the palace from the ghūls and monsters, Scheherazade's words echoed in Jasmine's ears. Create the ending of your story that you choose. Forget what is possible... And with the power of her conviction, Jasmine raced up the staircase two at a time to where the ifrit and the genie battled. Taking a steely breath, she leaped up onto the ifrit's fiery back, catching it by surprise--- and with Scheherazade's knife, Jasmine stabbed Dahish in the eye. Dahish flailed blindly, tumbling to the floor. Fatimah swooped down next to him and something materialized in her palm. The brass bottle. The atrium echoed with the sound of his defeated screams as Fatimah captured Dahish and forced him back into his brass bottle, throwing it into the last flames of the fire with Payam's bloodied body. As they burned, the remaining ghūls and snakes disintegrated before Jasmine's eyes, turning to ash now that the ifrit who controlled them was gone. Jasmine and Aladdin ran into each other's arms, exhausted and elated. The battle was won. Fatimah floated toward them, bowing gracefully, as if they hadn't all just been through a war. "Well done, Sultana.

I’m saying it’s the way of the world now to display yourself. And there is no putting that genie back in the bottle,” he said. “And some people integrate it well, they find social media connective. But for the rest of us, it’s a different story. Literally. And no one’s talking about it. The cost of curating your life.

Ford eventually did make a public apology in 1927, but only to settle a libel suit he was about to lose. And then only halfheartedly. The evil genie was well out of the bottle by then, anyway.

God isn't like a genie in a bottle who will do whatever we ask. Prayer is about talking with God, getting to know him, learning to love the things he loves. He's preparing us to be fit citizens for the kingdom to come, and his goal isn't to give us everything we want in this world. Don't you want whatever God knows is best?

When I try to use God the way someone uses an Ouija board of a Magic 8 Ball or a horoscope, I violate the nature of the divine-human relationship. I make me the master and God my genie in a bottle. I make getting the right outcome my idol. And I move away from the spiritual growth that is God's deepest desire for me; God's primary will for me is the person I become and not the circumstances I inhabit.

The toxic Soviet European Marxist genie had been let out of the bottle to poison what had been a peaceful and prosperous Southeast Asian land. All the beautiful traditions of Cambodia’s national life soon gave way to the horrors committed by those students who went to France.”15

my own decisions.

When I try to use God the way someone uses a Ouija board or a Magic 8 Ball or a horoscope, I violate the nature of the divine-human relationship. I make me the master and God my genie in a bottle. I make getting the right outcome my idol. And I move away from the spiritual growth that is God's deepest desire for me; God's primary will for me is the person I become and not the circumstances I inhabit.

Limitation makes for power. The strength of the genie comes of his being confined in a bottle.

What American Healthcare Can Learn from Italy: Three Lessons It’s easy. First, learn to live like Italians. Eat their famous Mediterranean diet, drink alcohol regularly but in moderation, use feet instead of cars, stop packing pistols and dropping drugs. Second, flatten out the class structure. Shrink the gap between high and low incomes, raise pensions and minimum wages to subsistence level, fix the tax structure to favor the ninety-nine percent. And why not redistribute lifestyle too? Give working stiffs the same freedom to have kids (maternity leave), convalesce (sick leave), and relax (proper vacations) as the rich. Finally, give everybody access to health care. Not just insurance, but actual doctors, medications, and hospitals. As I write, the future of the Affordable Care Act is uncertain, but surely the country will not fall into the abyss that came before. Once they’ve had a taste of what it’s like not to be one heart attack away from bankruptcy, Americans won’t turn back the clock. Even what is lately being called Medicare for All, considered to be on the fringe left a decade ago and slammed as “socialized medicine,” is now supported by a majority of Americans, according to some polls. In practice, there’s little hope for Italian lessons one and two—the United States is making only baby steps toward improving its lifestyle, and its income inequality is worse every year. But the third lesson is more feasible. Like Italy, we can provide universal access to treatment and medications with minimal point-of-service payments and with prices kept down by government negotiation. Financial arrangements could be single-payer like Medicare or use private insurance companies as intermediaries like Switzerland, without copying the full Italian model of doctors on government salaries. Despite the death by a thousand cuts currently being inflicted on the Affordable Care Act, I am convinced that Americans will no longer stand for leaving vast numbers of the population uninsured, or denying medical coverage to people whose only sin is to be sick. The health care genie can’t be put back in the bottle.

Thanks to demographics, that conservative push is not going to work—the United States is not going to be a mostly white country again—and because genies don’t go back into bottles and queer people are not going back into the closet and women aren’t going to surrender. It’s a war, but I don’t believe we’re losing it, even if we won’t win it anytime soon either;