Hayward Quotes

There weren’t perfect people, nor were there perfect lives or perfect relationships. There were, however, perfect moments. And this was one of them.

She was suddenly aware of him in a way she hadn't been before. Hayward was good-looking in a sweet and wholesome way.

She’s using the pen name Juniper Song to pretend to be Chinese American. She’s taken new author photos to look more tan and ethnic, but she’s as white as they come. June Hayward, you are a thief and a liar. You’ve stolen my legacy, and now you spit on my grave.

It is better for a leader to make a mistake in forgiving than to make it in punishing.” —Prophet Muhammad from Joel Hayward, The Leadership of Muhammad

A leader is a shield to the people

Great,” I muttered. “Maybe we can go out on a date, fall in love, get married, have us a whole bunch of kids and die fucking horrible deaths

I think that if the beast who sleeps in man could be held down by threats - any kind of threat, whether of jail or of retribution after death - then the highest emblem of humanity would be the lion tamer in the circus with his whip, not the prophet who sacrificed himself. But don't you see, this is just the point - what has for centuries raised man above the beast is not the cudgel but an inward music: the irresistible power of unarmed truth, the powerful attraction of its example. It has always been assumed that the most important things in the Gospels are the ethical maxims and commandments. But for me the most important thing is that Christ speaks in parables taken from life, that He explains the truth in terms of everyday reality. The idea that underlies this is that communion between mortals is immortal, and that the whole of life is symbolic because it is meaningful.

It is better for a leader to make a mistake in forgiving than to make it in punishing.

O Messenger of Allah! Shall I tie [the camel’s leg], or leave it loose and trust in Allah?" He said: “Tie it and put your trust in Allah.

Allah's Messenger ﷺ fought [with us] in severe heat, struggling on our long journey, against the desert and the great strength of the enemy.

[Hayward] honestly mistook his sensuality for romantic emotion, his vacillation for artistic temperament, and his idleness for philosophical calm... He was an idealist.

You want to do things, you want to become things," said Hayward, with a shrug of the shoulders. "It's so vulgar.

It was through Allah’s mercy that you [Muhammad] have been able to deal with them so gently. If you had been stern and hard-hearted, they would surely have dispersed from around you.

In that space between one beat and the next, all you are is potential. And that is where all the cool kids go to get their psychic powers.

You're just a weaponist, Jack." Jack stifled a snicker. "A weaponist?" "Like a racist but against certain weapons." "And you never met a weapon you didn't like." "A couple actually, but that was more personality differences." "Hah! No. You're just a weapon slut. There's a difference. I'm a weapon monogamist." He considered that, then added, "Well, maybe a very limited polygamist." "You haven't returned my Desert Eagle," Blade noted dryly. "It's lonely out here and I'm a man with needs.

I had never confronted my parents with the true feelings I had for them, and I had certainly never expressed the depth of my feeling for my mother, being too selfish to try when I should have.

There's enough joy in birding to fill a lifetime.

Luckily, I have ESP. Extra sensory presumption. It means I have this unbelievable talent for guessing and occasionally, I get it right.

What can you guarentee, O Nostradamus of Hayward?" I carp.

Hayward felt that life was full of ugliness,

a subject upon which Hayward felt he spoke with authority, he had assumed the air that it was his part to give information rather than to exchange ideas.

Weeks tore to pieces all that Hayward had said; with elaborate civility he displayed the superficiality of his attainments.

Hayward, capable of great things, had been full of enthusiasm for the future, and how, little by little, achieving nothing, he had resigned himself to failure.

A great disappointment befell him in the spring. Hayward had announced his intention of coming to London for the season, and Philip had looked forward very much to seeing him again. He had read so much lately and thought so much that his mind was full of ideas which he wanted to discuss, and he knew nobody who was willing to interest himself in abstract things.

It would have been reasonable for Hayward to stand aside and watch with a smile while the barbarians slaughtered one another. It looked as though men were puppets in the hands of an unknown force, which drove them to do this and that; and sometimes they used their reason to justify their actions; and when this was impossible they did the actions in despite of reason.

He thought of Hayward and his eager admiration for him when first they met, and how disillusion had come and then indifference, till nothing held them together but habit and old memories.

She used to write as June Hayward, tweets a user named reyl089. But she published her book about China as June Song. Fucked up, right? The literal definition of yellowface, writes one reply.

As a man of deep faith, Muhammad embraced and taught a theocentric understanding of leadership; that is, he believed that ultimately God chooses and puts in place all leaders, regardless of the specific procedure of a person’s appointment to a leadership role within a community or army.

Now and then, losing his calm as he felt himself more and more foolish, Hayward became abusive, and only the American's smiling politeness prevented the argument from degenerating into a quarrel.

These mod cons, despite the brief excitement they generated, were basically chutes leading down to clay pipes, which in turn acted as simple conduits to the river, depositing the waste of the rich next to the waste of the poor, where the distinction was lost on the kholics, who attempted, each day, to clean it up.

No, sorry. Song is my middle name, actually. My last name is Hayward. Neither of my parents are, um, Asian.” I want to die. I want to open the car door and roll out onto the highway and be obliterated by oncoming traffic.

No foreign sky protected me, no stranger’s wing shielded my face. I stand as witness to the common lot, survivor of that time, that place. —ANNA AKHMATOVA, FROM POEMS OF AKHMATOVA, TRANSLATED BY STANLEY KUNITZ, WITH MAX HAYWARD

It meant good-bye to London and to Churchill, whose company Harriman thoroughly enjoyed, and to Pamela, whose bed he enjoyed (the lovers’ hiatus lasted almost three decades, until 1971, when Pamela Beryl Digby Churchill Hayward became the third Mrs. Harriman).

Athena—a beautiful, Yale-educated, international, ambiguously queer woman of color—has been chosen by the Powers That Be. Meanwhile, I’m just brown-eyed, brown-haired June Hayward, from Philly—and no matter how hard I work, or how well I write, I’ll never be Athena Liu.

Even on social and cultural matters Muhammad liked to engage with people and hear views, routinely publicly praising the view of the person who initiated the discussion or whose opinion eventually prevailed, even if it had differed from his own. He delighted in good ideas, and made sure everyone knew who had advanced them, without claiming them as his own. He believed that credit should go to whom it was due.

One shelf became two. Then a wall. Then eight-foot rolling racks from a shut library in Hayward, Wisconsin. Maudie suggested changing the shop name to reflect its inventory. Bread and Books. Loaves and Lit. Pulp and Provender. Lark laughed off the idea. She said all of it was bread.

From a Berkeley Notebook' ~Denis Johnson One changes so much from moment to moment that when one hugs oneself against the chill air at the inception of spring, at night, knees drawn to chin, he finds himself in the arms of a total stranger, the arms of one he might move away from on the dark playground. Also, it breaks the heart that the sign revolving like a flame above the gas station remembers the price of gas, but forgets entirely this face it has been looking at all day. And so the heart is exhausted that even the face of the dismal facts we wait for the loves of the past to come walking from the fire, the tree, the stone, tangible and unchanged and repentant but what can you do. Half the time I think about my wife and child, the other half I think how to become a citizen with an apartment, and sex too is quite on my mind, though it seems the women have no time for you here, for which in my larger, more mature moments I can’t blame them. These are the absolute Pastures I am led to: I am in Berkeley, California, trapped inside my body, I am the secret my body is going to keep forever, as if its secret were merely silence. It lies between two mistakes of the earth, the San Andreas and Hayward faults, and at night from the hill above the stadium where I sleep, I can see the yellow aurora of Telegraph Avenue uplifted by the holocaust. My sleeping bag has little cowboys lassoing bulls embroidered all over its pastel inner lining, the pines are tall and straight, converging in a sort of roof above me, it’s nice, oh loves, oh loves, why aren’t you here? Morgan, my pyjamas are so lonesome without the orangutans—I write and write, and transcend nothing, escape nothing, nothing is truly born from me, yet magically it’s better than nothing—I know you must be quite changed by now, but you are just the same, too, like those stars that keep shining for a long time after they go out—but it’s just a light they touch us with this evening amid the fine rain like mist, among the pines.

He had always had a passion for life and the idealism he had come across seemed to him for the most part a cowardly shrinking from it. The idealist withdrew himself because he could not suffer the jostling of the human crowd; he had not the strength to fight and so called the battle vulgar; he was vain and since his fellows would not take him at his own estimate, consoled himself with despising his fellows. For Phillip, this type was Hayward, fair, languid, too fat now and rather bald, still cherishing the remains of his good looks and still delicately proposing to do exquisite things in the uncertain future; and at the back of this were whiskey and vulgar amours of the street.

Muhammad was gentle and flexible when he recognized sometimes that a greater good might be accomplished by releasing someone from a vow. When a young man happened to tell him that his pledge to emigrate with him (presumably to Medina) had made his parents cry, he humanely said: “Go back to them, and make them smile just as you had made them weep.

Lunacy attracting lunacy. Then, of course, they encourage each other, I suppose, validate each other.

Reagan liked to quip about détente: “Détente—isn’t that what a farmer has with his turkey—until Thanksgiving Day?

Alan Turing proposed the Turing Test: a computer is intelligent if you can't tell it from a human when you talk with it. No computer has been able to make it.

Nobody knows how to make machines that heal after they sustain damage.

Larry Wall's classic Programming Perl described the three programmer's virtues: hubris, laziness, and impatience.

... he understood how little time comprised a life, and how tenacious and wondrous and frustrating the interim between oblivions could be.

All gods are selfish and vain. Gods demand worship. Gods demand prayer.

That's what life was like. Implications and half-complete expressions, undefined expectations, ever unsure what exactly was needed, or what, in fact, was happening.

This book is a personal memoir; but it is also a larger story-about carelessness and guilt, and the wreckage they can make of lives.

It is entirely possible to miss something you've never had." - Ethan Bane

As a prophet and communal leader, Muhammad was entitled to special treatment, such as eating better while campaigning with his men. Yet he ate only what his warriors ate and suffered privations — intense heat, hunger and thirst, exhaustion and discomfort — equally with them. When he led a force of slightly over three hundred warriors to Badr in March 624, for example, they had only seventy camels between them. Three or four men therefore rode cramped on each camel. Muhammad asked for no preferential treatment, even though no one would have begrudged him the right to ride alone, and he uncomfortably shared his camel with ‘Ali ibn Abi Talib and Zayd ibn Harithah (some sources say Marthad ibn Abi Marthad al-Ghanawi).

When my world gets reset to zero, my starting post is blood. Specifically, the elements of it, the working compounds that make it what it is. Red cells, white cells, DNA, plasma full of proteins, enzymes, antibodies, minerals, electrolytes—all the things that when poked and prodded right tell you just about everything you want to know about a person. Fascinating stuff, and a little freaky, when you think about it. Blood was where I returned to after the accident that smashed my knee. It was where I went when I got out of prison. It was where I was when Mercy fell into my lap. Now it seemed, blood was my whole reason for being.

Perhaps not exactly a life wasted, but an overly courteous and restrained one, obedient, a life of service. Undermined, mostly, by a bitterness that had flowed, until today, deep under his proper-yet-seething skin.

Weeks had listened politely, with smiling modesty, till Hayward finished; then he asked one or two insidious questions, so innocent in appearance that Hayward, not seeing into what a quandary they led him, answered blandly; Weeks made a courteous objection, then a correction of fact, after that a quotation from some little known Latin commentator, then a reference to a German authority; and the fact was disclosed that he was a scholar.

One of the quips Reagan scribbled on a notepad after waking up after surgery was Winston Churchill’s famous line from his autobiography My Early Life that “there is no more exhilarating feeling than being shot at without result.

Components of his experiences seemed to break down, sorting into hard facts, like a series of crystals, as if they could be arranged, made sense of, as if they could be held, easy to view, hold, and look at from different angles.

I have been looking for an institution to continue my degree, but I couldn't because they didn't allow me to do it part time. My friend introduced me to original-degree.com and it literally changed my life. I am now continuing my degree, and working as well.

Dun dah,” Jack intoned. “Sorry, but that’s the wrong answer. The correct answer is . . .” He slung one arm around Ethan’s neck and pulled him in until they were chest to chest. “Blowjob. Come on, baby. Suck my brains out through my dick. That way, no headache!

I wept for my family, all if us, my beautiful, idyllic, lost family. I wept for our excesses, our delusions and inconsistencies; not that we had cared too much or too little, although both were true, but that we had let such extraordinary care be subverted into extraordinary carelessness. We'd been careless with the best of our many resources: each other. It was as though we had taken for granted the fact that there would be more where we had come from too; another chance, another summer, another Brooke, Bridget or Bill.

The illusion of free will is so strong in my mind that I can't get away from it, but I believe it is only an illusion. "But it is an illusion which is one of the strongest motives of my actions. Before I do anything I feel that I have choice, and that influences what I do; but afterwards, when the thing is done, I believe that it was inevitable from all eternity." "What do you deduce from that?" asked Hayward. "Why, merely the futility of regret. It's no good crying over spilt milk, because all the forces of the universe were bent on spilling it.

they suggest I publish under the name Juniper Song instead of June Hayward (“Your debut didn’t reach quite the same market we’re hoping for, and it’s better to have a clean start. And Juniper is so, so unique. What kind of name is that? It sounds Native, almost.”). Nobody talks about the difference in how “Song” might be perceived versus “Hayward.” No one says explicitly that “Song” might be mistaken for a Chinese name, when really it’s the middle name my mother came up with during her hippie phase in the eighties and I was very nearly named Juniper Serenity Hayward.

It seems to me that, in the real world, it is impossible to be guided solely by either the impulses of feeling or my rational calculation. Neither is likely to make us happy. In my own view, we have need of them both. Wisdom, I suppose, lies in knowing when to call upon one and when on the other.

Idealism and naiveté were youthful cousins. Foresight and the considerations of age and experience often brought inaction, compromise, second-guessing; the ability to foresee the extent of actions--to understand implications of cause and effect--could effectively thwart spontaneous, if impractical, decisions.

Watching the Greater Sage-Grouse stomping and popping, as they had done for millennia before, I could feel the urgency of their individual efforts together with that irony peculiar to life: despite the knowledge of one's own ultimate and bloody mortality, we need to dance like there will always be a tomorrow.

Nobody moved. "Now it's silly of me to make this all too serious," she said, changing the matter - of - fact inflection in her voice to one of levity. "You all look stricken and there's no need to be. Everything will be practically the same, you'll see." She smiled at us in a secret way, knowing how to make us giggle.

One of my favourite things to say to myself is that “I can become someone who can....”. Right now, I may be overwhelmed by trauma, unable to sleep, fearful that I won’t actually finish this book. But, I can become someone who can overcome all those things. This focuses attention on the now and on continual progress rather than events and milestones.

George Will’s equally serviceable formula was “He does not want to return to the past; he wants to return to the past’s way of facing the future.” Reagan’s variety of future-oriented optimism rooted in historical attachment has become almost unrecognizable in the age of a postmodernism that is openly contemptuous of history and historical experience.

It looked as though knowing that you were right meant nothing; they all knew they were right. Weeks had no intention of undermining the boy's faith, but he was deeply interested in religion, and found it an absorbing topic of conversation. He had described his own views accurately when he said that he very earnestly disbelieved in almost everything that other people believed. Once Philip asked him a question, which he had heard his uncle put when the conversation at the vicarage had fallen upon some mildly rationalistic work which was then exciting discussion in the newspapers. "But why should you be right and all those fellows like St. Anselm and St. Augustine be wrong?" "You mean that they were very clever and learned men, while you have grave doubts whether I am either?" asked Weeks. "Yes," answered Philip uncertainly, for put in that way his question seemed impertinent. "St. Augustine believed that the earth was flat and that the sun turned round it." "I don't know what that proves." "Why, it proves that you believe with your generation. Your saints lived in an age of faith, when it was practically impossible to disbelieve what to us is positively incredible." "Then how d'you know that we have the truth now?" "I don't." Philip thought this over for a moment, then he said: "I don't see why the things we believe absolutely now shouldn't be just as wrong as what they believed in the past." "Neither do I." "Then how can you believe anything at all?" "I don't know." Philip asked Weeks what he thought of Hayward's religion. "Men have always formed gods in their own image," said Weeks. "He believes in the picturesque." Philip paused for a little while, then he said: "I don't see why one should believe in God at all.

What I'm trying to say is that there's more to a story than events taking place in one location, to one person. You need to look at everything, at the same time, in the entire universe. Look at every person, every creature. Turn over every rock. See? In one glistening instant, plucked from the stream of time as it passes by: countless episodes, from a myriad of human lives, all vital, all entangled in a shared moment. So many threads...

The friction began at this first meeting. O’Neill was not initially impressed with Reagan and said to him, “You’ve been a governor of a state, but a governor plays in the minor leagues. You’re in the big leagues now.” (O’Neill had said the same thing to Jimmy Carter four years before.) Reagan replied, “Oh, you know, no problem there.” Despite the genial response, O’Neill’s comment represented the very kind of Washington haughtiness that set Reagan’s teeth on edge. Aides to the president-elect were incensed.

I remember at the reception you said to me, 'I'm the daughter of a father who's been married five times. Mother killed herself. My sister killed herself. My brother has been in a mental institution. I'm twenty-three and divorced with two kids.' I said, 'Brooke, either you've got to open the window right now'--we were on the tenth floor--'either you've got to open the window right now and jump out, or say "I'm going to live," because you're right, it's the worst family history that anybody ever had, and either you jump out the window or you live.

It was an exquisite memorial to that than which the world offers but one thing more precious, to a friendship; and as Philip looked at it, he felt the tears come to his eyes. He thought of Hayward and his eager admiration for him when first they met, and how disillusion had come and then indifference, till nothing held them together but habit and old memories. It was one of the queer things of life that you saw a person every day for months and were so intimate with him that you could not imagine existence without him; then separation came, and everything went on in the same way, and the companion who had seemed essential proved unnecessary. Your life proceeded and you did not even miss him. Philip thought of those early days in Heidelberg when Hayward, capable of great things, had been full of enthusiasm for the future, and how, little by little, achieving nothing, he had resigned himself to failure. Now he was dead. His death had been as futile as his life. He died ingloriously, of a stupid disease, failing once more, even at the end, to accomplish anything. It was just the same now as if he had never lived.

week before the election, the New Republic’s Morton Kondracke wrote that “it seems more likely by the day that Ronald Reagan is not going to execute a massive electoral sweep. In fact, the movement of the presidential campaign suggests a Carter victory.”14 David Broder had written: “There is no evidence of a dramatic upsurge in Republican strength or a massive turnover in Congress.” Though polls in the days leading up to the election showed Reagan ahead of Carter, most were near or within the margin of error, and everyone was predicting a late-night nail-biter. The New York Times poll three days out had Reagan ahead by a single point; veteran California pollster Mervin Field said, “At the moment there is a slight movement toward Carter.” George Gallup said, “This election could very well be a cliffhanger just like 1948.”15

Philip had cultivated a certain disdain for idealism. He had always had a passion for life, and the idealism he had come across seemed to him for the most part a cowardly shrinking from it. The idealist withdrew himself, because he could not suffer the jostling of the human crowd; he had not the strength to fight and so called the battle vulgar; he was vain, and since his fellows would not take him at his own estimate, consoled himself with despising his fellows. For Philip his type was Hayward, fair, languid, too fat now and rather bald, still cherishing the remains of his good looks and still delicately proposing to do exquisite things in the uncertain future; and at the back of this were whiskey and vulgar amours of the street. It was in reaction from what Hayward represented that Philip clamoured for life as it stood; sordidness, vice, deformity, did not offend him; he declared that he wanted man in his nakedness; and he rubbed his hands when an instance came before him of meanness, cruelty, selfishness, or lust: that was the real thing. In Paris he had learned that there was neither ugliness nor beauty, but only truth: the search after beauty was sentimental. Had he not painted an advertisement of chocolat Menier in a landscape in order to escape from the tyranny of prettiness? But here he seemed to divine something new. He had been coming to it, all hesitating, for some time, but only now was conscious of the fact; he felt himself on the brink of a discovery. He felt vaguely that here was something better than the realism which he had adored; but certainly it was not the bloodless idealism which stepped aside from life in weakness; it was too strong; it was virile; it accepted life in all its vivacity, ugliness and beauty, squalor and heroism; it was realism still; but it was realism carried to some higher pitch, in which facts were transformed by the more vivid light in which they were seen. He seemed to see things more profoundly through the grave eyes of those dead noblemen of Castile; and the gestures of the saints, which at first had seemed wild and distorted, appeared to have some mysterious significance. But he could not tell what that significance was. It was like a message which it was very important for him to receive, but it was given him in an unknown tongue, and he could not understand. He was always seeking for a meaning in life, and here it seemed to him that a meaning was offered; but it was obscure and vague. He was profoundly troubled. He saw what looked like the truth as by flashes of lightning on a dark, stormy night you might see a mountain range. He seemed to see that a man need not leave his life to chance, but that his will was powerful; he seemed to see that self-control might be as passionate and as active as the surrender to passion; he seemed to see that the inward life might be as manifold, as varied, as rich with experience, as the life of one who conquered realms and explored unknown lands.

We’re for limited government,” he said in his 1988 State of the Union speech, “because we understand, as the Founding Fathers did, that it is the best way of ensuring personal liberty and empowering the individual so that every American of every race and region shares fully in the flowering of American prosperity and freedom.

It is only as Reagan became the oldest living ex-president and new testimonials from his doctors came to light about his extraordinary fitness that we have begun to perceive that Reagan was as physically unique as he was mentally unique. Reagan

Well boys, your troubles are over now; mine have just begun.” I think I know what he meant. Lincoln may have been concerned in the troubled times in which he became President, but I don’t think he was afraid. He was ready to confront the problems and the troubles of a still-youthful country, determined to seize the historic opportunity to change things. I am not frightened by what lies ahead. And I don’t believe the American people are frightened by what lies ahead. Together, together we’re going to do what has to be done. I aim to try and tap that great American spirit that opened up this completely undeveloped continent from coast to coast and made it a great nation, survived several wars, survived a great Depression, and we’ll survive the problems that we face right now.

Air Conditioning Repair Hayward| HVAC | Heating and Cooling “It may not take too long for split air conditioners to cool the room, but a dirty air filter or a blocked condensate drain may be the reason, even if it is left on for hours if there is no proper cooling. The AC is shielded by air filters from dust in the air. It may be simple to clean an air filter in a window AC, but you will need assistance from a split AC professional. Air filters accumulate dust and debris drawn into the ducts, and they remain clogged and impact the cooling process if they are not cleaned regularly. We recommend having the air conditioner serviced twice a year for increased performance and to avoid any problems during summers.Ice formation around the coils or a dirty outdoor compressor for which a professional would need assistance may be another possible reason for the lack of cooling. If the air conditioner does not cool properly, the coolant will be low as well. This either means that it has been undercharged, or that there is a gas leak in the split air conditioner. This is a more common problem for people living around coastal regions or anywhere close to waste water, where air pollution is high.Another potential explanation for the lack of cooling could be ice formation around the coils or a dirty outdoor compressor for which a specialist may need assistance. The coolant will also be poor if the air conditioner does not cool correctly. This either suggests that it has been undercharged, or that the split air conditioner has a gas leak. For people living around coastal regions or anywhere close to waste water, where air pollution is high, this is a more common concern.You can, however, avoid costly AC repairs with regular maintenance and keep your AC running at optimum performance. It is a warning of a burned cable, a faulty starting capacitor or a defective compressor itself when the compressor stops working. In this case, you will need to clean the condenser coil, inspect the capacitor and repair the compressor if it is found to be faulty. When the air conditioner starts to turn on and off, before you get it serviced, it is better to turn it off. Most possibly, the evaporator is dirty and the condenser is dirty or blocked.A dirty filter restricts airflow and reduced airflow creates further problems, like a frozen evaporator coil. Before and after summer, in particular, it is important to adjust the air filter for better cooling and overall performance. To see if the timer function has been turned on and altered accordingly, double check your thermostat settings. ac companies near me heating and cooling near me” #acpowerHayward#AcpowerHayward#airconditioning#hvac #hvaclife #ac #airconditioner #heating #hvacservice #cooling #hvactechnician #hvactech #heatingandcooling #hvacrepair #refrigeration #plumbing #hvacr #hvacinstall #maintenance #furnace #hvaccontractor #aircon #service #acrepair #hvacquality #hvactools #airconditioningrepair #hvaclove#ACRepairNearBy #ACTechnician #HVAC #Heating&Cooling #FurnanceRepair

A night when the old year stumbles and the new is yet to be born, a night when time does not flow but pools, and everything that could be, is.

Because Christmas Ever is the one night of the year when the animals can speak, and the rocks can sing and the sea itself can whisper to us, if only we learn how to listen...

But what people are really doing, when they tell those tales, is weaving the old magic.

to

This is what I’ve come to realize: we need to edify ourselves. We need to start a new program of deprogramming our minds. We actually need to rewire our brains… and some claim this is actually physically as well… and train it to think positive thoughts about ourselves. We need to reconstruct (and for many of us it is construct for the very first time) a self-image that is positive rather than negative.

Past One O’Clock ... Past one o’clock. You must have gone to bed. The Milky Way streams silver through the night. I’m in no hurry; with lightning telegrams I have no cause to wake or trouble you. And, as they say, the incident is closed. Love’s boat has smashed against the daily grind. Now you and I are quits. Why bother then To balance mutual sorrows, pains, and hurts. Behold what quiet settles on the world. Night wraps the sky in tribute from the stars. In hours like these, one rises to address The ages, history, and all creation. Vladimir Mayakovsky, The Bedbug and selected poetry, translated by Max Hayward and George Reavey. Meridian Books, New York, 1960; Transcribed: by Mitch Abidor. This poem was found among Mayakovsky’s papers after his suicide on April 14, 1930. He had used the middle section, with slight changes, as an epilogue to his suicide note.

A strong hand landed on Jack’s shoulder and his laugh choked off in surprise. As the fingers squeezed a little tighter than comfortable, Jack looked up and met Ethan’s shuttered gaze. Even through the dark panes of his sunglasses, Jack could feel the steeliness of the man’s expression.

Coming wasn’t the most important outcome all of a sudden—the here and now with his Ethan was.

Jack was such an idiot. The name Roy was a cover, but the man wasn’t. Rampaging Roy, race car driver, was as much a part of Ethan as Ethan Blade, paid killer. Just as Nishant was Jack’s way to smooth over society’s racial expectations. Nishant wasn’t separate from Jack, just another shield he used to protect himself.

I’m here for him and that’s all that matters.

Stay and I’ll kiss you on the mouth.” Ethan stalled mid-step. Without looking back, he said, “Let me change that from amusing and embarrassing to inappropriate and embarrassing.

Different couch, different man, but the same fear.

Shiloh’s Recommended Listening Tears for Fears. “Everybody Wants to Rule the World.” By Olzabal, Roland, Stanley, Ian and Hughes, Chris. Somerset, UK: Fontana/Mercury/Phonogram. Songs from the Big Chair. 1985. Joey Ramone. “What a Wonderful World.” By Thiele, Bob and Weiss, George David. Sanctuary Records Group. Don’t Worry About Me. 2002. The Moody Blues. “Question.” By Hayward, Justin. London, UK: Threshold Records. A Question of Balance. 1970. The Church. “Under the Milky Way.” By Kilbey, Steve and Jansson, Karin. Australia: Arista. Starfish. 1988. The Pixies. “Where is My Mind?” By Francis, Black. Boston, MA: 4AD. Surfer Rosa. 1988. The Beatles. “All You Need Is Love.” By Lennon-McCartney. London, UK: Parlophone Capitol. Magical Mystery Tour. 1967. Styx. “The Grand Illusion.” By Dennis DeYoung. Chicago, IL: A&M Records. The Grand Illusion. 1977. The Flaming Lips. “Do You Realize??” By Coyne, Wayne, Drozd, Steven, Ivins, Michael and Fridmann, Dave. New York, NY: Warner Brothers Records. Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robots. 2002. The Beatles. “Across the Universe.” By Lennon-McCartney, London, UK: Regal Starline. No One’s Gonna Change Our World. 1969.

We all have knives." Anger bubbling up again, Jack shouted over him. "All of us! That's all any of us are. We're just a bunch of knives waiting to cut anyone who gets too close. Our insecurities. Our weaknesses. prejudices, arrogance. Everything that makes us who we are is a knife you can use to hurt someone else. God fucking knows I've hurt everyone around me. Family, friends, lovers. You. And they've hurt me. Stabbed me in the fucking heart.

there was something therapeutic and necessary about the birding. I suspected it had to do with the intense focus and the way it brings you to the present. When I was birding, I didn’t worry about the past and lament all those best years being over, or fear the future, empty and rapidly disappearing. The present was different, like my brain had declutched from the competing anxieties and I was free to coast in neutral.

Happiness is not spending a single second reading endless—and I mean, endless—shitposts in 'The Guardian' masquerading as reportage about the kind of very, very boring morons you actively go out of your way to never meet. Happiness is The Wellcome Collection, but never the Hayward. Happiness is Kylie Minogue and Graham Norton because they're both dope, but not Dua Lipa or Calvin Harris because even though they both seem to be everywhere, all the time, I swear I cannot for the life of me name a single song of theirs.

For one thing she [Alice Hayward] possessed that passionate love of abstract justice which has become more a woman's than a man's trait, in our modern civilisation.

Of course, she [Alice Hayward] was right. She always was right, though now and again she suspected, with a touch of exasperation, that John didn't always think so. But he generally let her have her own way, and that, after all, is what matters to a wife, especially is she loves her husband as much as she, Alice, loved her John.

This process is all about structural integrity. And, whether your life thrives or collapses is all down to how sound your foundation is.

Everything achieved by effort must be maintained by effort. And everything achieved at rest can be maintained at rest.

Never settle unless there’s something worth settling for.

Anayansi Corey has a teaching history at the elementary level and is currently a Spanish tutor. She's received her Teaching Credential with an emphasis in Bilingual Cross-Cultural Education in Spanish from the California State University of Hayward. As she completed her degree, Anayansi also served in the US Army Reserves, attending drill weekends a least once per month. Her personal goals include traveling and spending time with her family, including a safari in Africa and visiting Asia countries.

The meeting was drawing to a close when Hayward asked a final question. “Dr. Ballard, in your presentation at the War College you mentioned a new underwater exploration technology you have under development. What is the status of that effort?” Before I could respond, Admiral Kollmorgen spoke up, “Admiral, that program is being funded by my office, sir.” At that moment, my Argo/Jason system was born. Kollmorgen approved grants of $500,000 a year for four years—two million dollars total to design the system. Funny how things really get done, isn’t it? But I knew I would need millions more to test it. After the meeting, Thunman arranged for the Navy’s Deep Submergence Systems group to sign me into the highly classified programs that Hayward had mentioned.