Inspirational Air Force Quotes

I have come to accept the feeling of not knowing where I am going. And I have trained myself to love it. Because it is only when we are suspended in mid-air with no landing in sight, that we force our wings to unravel and alas begin our flight. And as we fly, we still may not know where we are going to. But the miracle is in the unfolding of the wings. You may not know where you're going, but you know that so long as you spread your wings, the winds will carry you.

Death is nothing at all. It does not count. I have only slipped away into the next room. Nothing has happened. Everything remains exactly as it was. I am I, and you are you, and the old life that we lived so fondly together is untouched, unchanged. Whatever we were to each other, that we are still. Call me by the old familiar name. Speak of me in the easy way which you always used. Put no difference into your tone. Wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow. Laugh as we always laughed at the little jokes that we enjoyed together. Play, smile, think of me, pray for me. Let my name be ever the household word that it always was. Let it be spoken without an effort, without the ghost of a shadow upon it. Life means all that it ever meant. It is the same as it ever was. There is absolute and unbroken continuity. What is this death but a negligible accident? Why should I be out of mind because I am out of sight? I am but waiting for you, for an interval, somewhere very near, just round the corner. All is well. Nothing is hurt; nothing is lost. One brief moment and all will be as it was before. How we shall laugh at the trouble of parting when we meet again!

Perfectly Imperfect We have all heard that no two snowflakes are alike. Each snowflake takes the perfect form for the maximum efficiency and effectiveness for its journey. And while the universal force of gravity gives them a shared destination, the expansive space in the air gives each snowflake the opportunity to take their own path. They are on the same journey, but each takes a different path. Along this gravity-driven journey, some snowflakes collide and damage each other, some collide and join together, some are influenced by wind... there are so many transitions and changes that take place along the journey of the snowflake. But, no matter what the transition, the snowflake always finds itself perfectly shaped for its journey. I find parallels in nature to be a beautiful reflection of grand orchestration. One of these parallels is of snowflakes and us. We, too, are all headed in the same direction. We are being driven by a universal force to the same destination. We are all individuals taking different journeys and along our journey, we sometimes bump into each other, we cross paths, we become altered... we take different physical forms. But at all times we too are 100% perfectly imperfect. At every given moment we are absolutely perfect for what is required for our journey. I’m not perfect for your journey and you’re not perfect for my journey, but I’m perfect for my journey and you’re perfect for your journey. We’re heading to the same place, we’re taking different routes, but we’re both exactly perfect the way we are. Think of what understanding this great orchestration could mean for relationships. Imagine interacting with others knowing that they too each share this parallel with the snowflake. Like you, they are headed to the same place and no matter what they may appear like to you, they have taken the perfect form for their journey. How strong our relationships would be if we could see and respect that we are all perfectly imperfect for our journey.

It’s hard to beat a person who never gives up.

And so taking the long way home through the market I slow my pace down. It doesn't come naturally. My legs are programmed to trot briskly and my arms to pump up and down like pistons, but I force myself to stroll past the stalls and pavement cafes. To enjoy just being somewhere, rather than rushing from somewhere, to somewhere. Inhaling deep lungfuls of air, instead of my usual shallow breaths. I take a moment to just stop and look around me. And smile to myself. For the first time in a long time, I can, quite literally, smell the coffee.

War is not just the shower of bullets and bombs from both sides, it is also the shower of blood and bones on both sides.

First gain the victory and then make the best use of it you can.

Here sighs and cries and shrieks of lamentation echoed throughout the starless air of Hell; at first these sounds resounding made me weep: tongues confused, a language strained in anguish with cadences of anger, shrill outcries and raucous groans that joined with sounds of hands, raising a whirling storm that turns itself forever through that air of endless black, like grains of sand swirling when a whirlwind blows. And I, in the midst of all this circling horror, began, "Teacher, what are these sounds I hear? What souls are these so overwhelmed by grief?" And he to me: "This wretched state of being is the fate of those sad souls who lived a life but lived it with no blame and with no praise. They are mixed with that repulsive choir of angels neither faithful nor unfaithful to their God, who undecided stood but for themselves. Heaven, to keep its beauty, cast them out, but even Hell itself would not receive them, for fear the damned might glory over them." And I. "Master, what torments do they suffer that force them to lament so bitterly?" He answered: "I will tell you in few words: these wretches have no hope of truly dying, and this blind life they lead is so abject it makes them envy every other fate. The world will not record their having been there; Heaven's mercy and its justice turn from them. Let's not discuss them; look and pass them by...

O for a Muse of fire, that would ascend The brightest heaven of invention, A kingdom for a stage, princes to act And monarchs to behold the swelling scene! Then should the warlike Harry, like himself, Assume the port of Mars; and at his heels, Leash'd in like hounds, should famine, sword and fire Crouch for employment. But pardon, and gentles all, The flat unraised spirits that have dared On this unworthy scaffold to bring forth So great an object: can this cockpit hold The vasty fields of France? or may we cram Within this wooden O the very casques That did affright the air at Agincourt? O, pardon! since a crooked figure may Attest in little place a million; And let us, ciphers to this great accompt, On your imaginary forces work. Suppose within the girdle of these walls Are now confined two mighty monarchies, Whose high upreared and abutting fronts The perilous narrow ocean parts asunder: Piece out our imperfections with your thoughts; Into a thousand parts divide on man, And make imaginary puissance; Think when we talk of horses, that you see them Printing their proud hoofs i' the receiving earth; For 'tis your thoughts that now must deck our kings, Carry them here and there; jumping o'er times, Turning the accomplishment of many years Into an hour-glass: for the which supply, Admit me Chorus to this history; Who prologue-like your humble patience pray, Gently to hear, kindly to judge, our play.

I was in the Air Force a while and they had what they call "policing the area." That's where you looked around and if there's anything wrong here, there, anywhere, you took care of your own area. And I think that's a pretty good thing to go by. If everyone just takes care of their own area then we won't have any problems. Be here. Be present. Wherever you are, be there. And look around you and see what needs to be changed.

Strength lies not in defence but in attack.

Countless times, I remember watching him toss ideas—pretty far-out ideas—into the air, just to see how they played. And if they didn’t play well, he would move on.

Inside her head or out in the desert was the same, and the air inside her throat was very dry to keep from crying and her neck sore from forcing herself not to look down, not to look back.

Have you ever wondered What happens to all the poems people write? The poems they never let anyone else read? Perhaps they are Too private and personal Perhaps they are just not good enough. Perhaps the prospect of such a heartfelt expression being seen as clumsy shallow silly pretentious saccharine unoriginal sentimental trite boring overwrought obscure stupid pointless or simply embarrassing is enough to give any aspiring poet good reason to hide their work from public view. forever. Naturally many poems are IMMEDIATELY DESTROYED. Burnt shredded flushed away Occasionally they are folded Into little squares And wedged under the corner of An unstable piece of furniture (So actually quite useful) Others are hidden behind a loose brick or drainpipe or sealed into the back of an old alarm clock or put between the pages of AN OBSCURE BOOK that is unlikely to ever be opened. someone might find them one day, BUT PROBABLY NOT The truth is that unread poetry Will almost always be just that. DOOMED to join a vast invisible river of waste that flows out of suburbia. well Almost always. On rare occasions, Some especially insistent pieces of writing will escape into a backyard or a laneway be blown along a roadside embankment and finally come to rest in a shopping center parking lot as so many things do It is here that something quite Remarkable takes place two or more pieces of poetry drift toward each other through a strange force of attraction unknown to science and ever so slowly cling together to form a tiny, shapeless ball. Left undisturbed, this ball gradually becomes larger and rounder as other free verses confessions secrets stray musings wishes and unsent love letters attach themselves one by one. Such a ball creeps through the streets Like a tumbleweed for months even years If it comes out only at night it has a good Chance of surviving traffic and children and through a slow rolling motion AVOIDS SNAILS (its number one predator) At a certain size, it instinctively shelters from bad weather, unnoticed but otherwise roams the streets searching for scraps of forgotten thought and feeling. Given time and luck the poetry ball becomes large HUGE ENORMOUS: A vast accumulation of papery bits That ultimately takes to the air, levitating by The sheer force of so much unspoken emotion. It floats gently above suburban rooftops when everybody is asleep inspiring lonely dogs to bark in the middle of the night. Sadly a big ball of paper no matter how large and buoyant, is still a fragile thing. Sooner or LATER it will be surprised by a sudden gust of wind Beaten by driving rain and REDUCED in a matter of minutes to a billion soggy shreds. One morning everyone will wake up to find a pulpy mess covering front lawns clogging up gutters and plastering car windscreens. Traffic will be delayed children delighted adults baffled unable to figure out where it all came from Stranger still Will be the Discovery that Every lump of Wet paper Contains various faded words pressed into accidental verse. Barely visible but undeniably present To each reader they will whisper something different something joyful something sad truthful absurd hilarious profound and perfect No one will be able to explain the Strange feeling of weightlessness or the private smile that remains Long after the street sweepers have come and gone.

The answer is always "No" until you ask. - Ref James 4:2

My Floating Sea" "Pastel colors reflect in my opening eyes and draw my gaze to a horizon where the waters both begin and end. This early in the day I can easily stare without blinking. The pale sea appears calm, but it is stormy just as often. I awe at the grandeur, how it expands beyond my sight to immeasurable depths. In every direction that I twist my neck, a beauteous blue is there to console me. Flowing, floating ribbons of mist form on these pale waters. In harmony they pirouette, creating a stretch of attractive, soft swirls. Swoosh! The wind, its strength in eddies and twisters, smears the art of dancing clouds, and the white disperses like startled fairies fleeing into the forest. Suddenly all is brilliant blue. The waters calm and clear. It warms me. Pleases me. Forces my eyes to close at such vast radiance. My day is spent surrounded by this ethereal sea, but soon enough the light in its belly subsides. Rich colors draw my gaze to the opposite horizon where the waters both begin and end. I watch the colors bleed and deepen. They fade into black. Yawning, I cast my eyes at tiny gleams of life that drift within the darkened waters. I extend my reach as if I could will my arm to stretch the expanse between me and eons. How I would love to brush a finger over a ray of living light, but I know I cannot. Distance deceives me. These little breathing lights floating in blackness would truly reduce me to the tiniest size, like a mountain stands majestic over a single wild flower. I am overwhelmed by it all and stare up, in love with the floating sea above my head.

The casting of the brash United States Army Air Force officer Colonel Robert E. Hogan and the pompous German Luftwaffe officer Colonel Wilhelm Klink was inspired. For this series—a comedy with the serious backdrop of war—to succeed, the lead players had to be the perfect fit. The dynamic portrayal of this military odd couple had to be articulate, accurate, and precise. For the show to work, for the concept to be accepted, for one of the most outlandish premises in television history to be believed, the actors signed to play the two leading characters not only had to bring these extreme individuals to life with broad, fictional strokes, they had to make them real in the details.

While the living thing may easily be crushed by superior force, it none the less tries to turn the energies which act upon it into means of its own further existence. If it cannot do so, it does not just split into smaller pieces (at least in the higher forms of life), but loses its identity as a living thing. As long as it endures, it struggles to use surrounding energies in its own behalf. It uses light, air, moisture, and the material of soil. To say that it uses them is to say that it turns them into means of its own conservation. As long as it is growing, the energy it expends in thus turning the environment to account is more than compensated for by the return it gets: it grows.

Indeed, Chicago seems to have literally sucked the air out of Springfield: another case of American becoming a network of massive city-states more intimately interconnected with other continents than with their own hinterlands. It is in the merging with the rest of the world and global civilization that the forces of division come to the fore at home. Springfield: another small city that should inspire but doesn't.

And that brings me to one last point. I've got a simple message for all the dedicated and patriotic federal workers who have either worked without pay, or who have been forced off the job without pay for these last few weeks. Including most of my own staff. Thank you. Thanks for your service. Welcome back. What you do is important. It matters. You defend our country overseas, you deliver benefits to our troops who earned them when they come home, you guard our borders, you protect our civil rights, you help businesses grow and gain footholds in overseas markets. You protect the air we breathe, and the water our children drink, and you push the boundaries of science and space, and you guide hundreds of thousands of people each day through the glories of this country. Thank you. What you do is important, and don't let anybody else tell you different.

We seem afraid of the natural forces. John Burroughs puts it well, says, if the American is only dry, he is not content to take a drink of pure cold water, but must put sugar into it, or a flavor. To me, these things—the things of which these are the type—are the prominent dangers in the future of our America. The exhilaration of such freedom—the going and coming—the being master of yourself and of the road! No one who is not a walker can begin to know it! Oh! the long, long walks, way into the nights!—in the after hours—sometimes lasting till two or three in the morning! The air, the stars, the moon, the water—what a fullness of inspiration they imparted!—what exhilaration! And there were the detours, too—wanderings off into the country out of the beaten path: I remember one place in Maryland in particular to which we would go. How splendid, above all, was the moon—the full moon, the half moon: and then the wonder, the delight, of the silences.

[Life] has been passing since the day he was born, and everything he puts off, chooses not to do or say because he is hoarding experience for his real, adult life isn't a thing safeguarded but a treasure risked. The world is full of things put off for the wrong reasons, which can suddenly become impossible without warning. They hang in the air like ghosts, their mouths and eyes sewn up forever. They will never be able to speak, but if it was you who put them there, you will always be forced to see them.

Don't you understand man? The slogans of capitulation can KILL! Every time we say "Live and let live"--death triumphs! Too much has happened, too much has happened to me. . . . That which warped and distorted all of us is--all around: it is in this very air! This swirling, seething, madness that you ask us all to help maintain! It's no good, Wally--your world. It's no--damn--good! You have forced me to take a position. Finally -- the one thing I never wanted to do. Just being for you is not enough. To live, to breathe--I've got to be against you.

Work is simply, “force x distance” or the product of a force applied to an object and the displacement of the object in the direction of the applied force…holding an object in the air does not involve any work, no matter how painful your hand will be after a few minutes… reflect on your daily activities and the results from them. Are you really working or just increasing your potential without progress or desired results? Your work must produce some movement, progress and change, by effectively using all your energies whether intellectual or physical.

Death is nothing at all. It does not count. I have only slipped away into the next room. Nothing has happened. Everything remains exactly as it was. I am I, and you are you, and the old life that we lived so fondly together is untouched, unchanged. Whatever we were to each other, that we are still. Call me by the old familiar name. Speak of me in the easy way which you always used. Put no difference into your tone. Wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow. Laugh as we always laughed at the little jokes that we enjoyed together. Play, smile, think of me, pray for me. Let my name be ever the household word that it always was. Let it be spoken without an effort, without the ghost of a shadow upon it. Life means all that it ever meant. It is the same as it ever was. There is absolute and unbroken continuity. What is this death but a negligible accident? Why should I be out of mind because I am out of sight? I am but waiting for you, for an interval, somewhere very near, just round the corner. All is well. Nothing is hurt; nothing is lost. One brief moment and all will be as it was before. How we shall laugh at the trouble of parting when we meet again!

Going up that river was like traveling back to the earliest beginnings of the world, when vegetation rioted on the earth and the big trees were kings. An empty stream, a great silence, an impenetrable forest. The air was warm, thick, heavy, sluggish. There was no joy in the brilliance of sunshine. The long stretches of the waterway ran on, deserted, into the gloom of overshadowed distances. On silvery sandbanks hippos and alligators sunned themselves side by side. The broadening waters flowed through a mob of wooded islands; you lost your way on that river as you would in a desert, and butted all day long against shoals, trying to find the channel, till you thought yourself bewitched and cut off for ever from everything you had known once—somewhere—far away—in another existence perhaps. There were moments when one's past came back to one, as it will sometimes when you have not a moment to spare to yourself; but it came in the shape of an unrestful and noisy dream, remembered with wonder amongst the overwhelming realities of this strange world of plants, and water, and silence. And this stillness of life did not in the least resemble a peace. It was the stillness of an implacable force brooding over an inscrutable intention. It looked at you with a vengeful aspect. I got used to it afterwards; I did not see it any more; I had no time. I had to keep guessing at the channel; I had to discern, mostly by inspiration, the signs of hidden banks; I watched for sunken stones; I was learning to clap my teeth smartly before my heart flew out, when I shaved by a fluke some infernal sly old snag that would have ripped the life out of the tin-pot steamboat and drowned all the pilgrims; I had to keep a look-out for the signs of dead wood we could cut up in the night for next day's steaming. When you have to attend to things of that sort, to the mere incidents of the surface, the reality—the reality, I tell you—fades. The inner truth is hidden—luckily, luckily.

All leaders were equal at the conference table, but those from heavyweight countries showed that they were more equal by arriving in big private jets, the British in their VC 10s and Comets, and the Canadians in Boeings. The Australians joined this select group in 1979, after Malcolm Fraser's government purchased a Boeing 707 for the Royal Australian Air Force. Those African presidents whose countries were then better off, like Kenya and Nigeria, also had special aircraft. I wondered why they did not set out to impress the world that they were poor and in dire need of assistance. Our permanent representative at the UN in New York explained that the poorer the country, the bigger the Cadillacs they hired for their leaders. So I made a virtue of arriving by ordinary commercial aircraft, and thus helped preserve Singapore's third World status for many years. However, by the mid-1990s, the World Bank refused to heed our pleas not to reclassify us as a "High Income Developing Country", giving no Brownie points for my frugal travel habits. We lost all the concessions that were given to developing countries.

The thunder howled and the rain splashed, the leaves played with the breeze and the lightning flashed, and the tigress growled at last. She looked here and she looked there, she hadn't seen so much rain anywhere, a desire suddenly came in her heart, a mad longing that had to start, she felt deep love in the rain, looking at her cubs all over again But two years ago she had been wounded, By cowardly men who wanted her grounded, They were afraid of her power, they wanted to capture her and to enslave her in their tower They laid traps and they waited in the trees, The jungle was full of birds and the bees, The tigress was out hunting for meat, her cubs awaiting in the cave for their treat There was something missing in the air, the fragrance of jasmine was not there, The tigress looked up into the trees and saw the men's faces painted in grease, She challenged them looking into their eyes, And saw fear, fright , and faces full of lies! She roared with all her might, This was her land, She had all the right! The cowardly men crouching behind the trees, Fired their guns in twos and threes, The brave Tigress looked them in the eye, She was the fire and she was the sky, Indomitable force, invincible power, She was the Tigress, The Queen in her Empire None of the bullets could break her Spirit, Only one could graze her right leg a bit, She roared with all her heart's might, For she was the Queen for all to sight! The guns emptied and no more bullets to shoot, The cowardly men jumped from the trees and ran away in two hoots! The Tigress laughed and loudly roared, For she was the power and her Spirit soared She is the Tigress inside every Woman, She has the Power to defeat any Man, Love her and she would love you back, Respect her and she would respect you back, Dare to harm her and she would defeat you till the Last!

Pieces of my self. I have come to realise that our soul is not a static element or something that we can ever put in words. It is something that we find and embrace in bits and pieces flowing through an endless journey of life. Sometimes we find a halo of it in the setting sun while sometimes we chase its harmony in a distant sunrise. We have moments in Life, defining our traits, when some incident or some part of our Life changes forever rather takes shape forever but that too is not entirely rigid, they too flow with our soul and may be years or even moments later they change shape into something that twinkles more with our soul. It is a process of learning, unlearning and relearning where everything that we assemble in this Lifetime is like a free flowing river which meanders its way onto an ocean. And the ocean is Love. Not the Love that we often imagine it be, it is something beyond any imagination or definition. It is an air that absorbs every other force of Nature and releases them through the filter of Wisdom. It is about understanding our innermost fear and fighting it out with the indomitable courage that is always lurking in the deepest part of our heart. It is about knowing how contagious kindness can be and becoming the reflector of grace through our very existence. It is about embracing every chapter of our life with gratitude for the path that our spirit has chosen beyond boundaries and limits. It is about growing and healing. Growing through a voyage that is endless in this Cosmic ocean and healing through the balm of connections. I have realised that every connection that we make even if it is for a fraction of a second stays on within our soul and every alley that we explore leads us to a place that is closer to our destination. Sometimes the Destination gets blurred through the noises of all that is tangible in our surroundings and we often grow exhausted on this journey, it is then that we grow, trying to walk over a pyre of our failures, lost bonds, detours and everything that are capable of pulling us down they become stars, like the fireflies that show us the path to bring us closer to our soul, to put back the pieces of our self. They make us all that we stand as a whole. So especially when we run out of our strength somewhere in some hidden alley of our soul, something burns in our soul, a flicker of our passion guiding us home, where the pieces of our soul dance in a mad harmony to awaken the flame that lights our way onto a destination, wandering along the edge of a purpose that breathes through scattered pieces of our self, basking in the halo of eternity.

Under these circumstances the most anodyne book was a source of danger from the simple fact that love was alluded to, and woman depicted as an attractive creature; and this was enough to account for all—for the inherent ignorance of Catholics, since it was proclaimed as the preventive cure for temptations—for the instinctive horror of art, since to these craven souls every written and studied work was in its nature a vehicle of sin and an incitement to fall. Would it not really be far more sensible and judicious to open the windows, to air the rooms, to treat these souls as manly beings, to teach them not to be so much afraid of their own flesh, to inculcate the firmness and courage needed for resistance? For really it is rather like a dog which barks at your heels and snaps at your legs if you are afraid of him, but who beats a retreat if you turn on him boldly and drive him off. The fact remains that these schemes of education have resulted, on the one hand, in the triumph of the flesh in the greater number of men who have been thus brought up and then thrown into a worldly life, and on the other, in a wide diffusion of folly and fear, an abandonment of the possessions of the intellect and the capitulation of the Catholic army surrendering without a blow to the inroads of profane literature, which takes possession of territory that it has not even had the trouble of conquering. This really was madness! The Church had created art, had cherished it for centuries; and now by the effeteness of her sons she was cast into a corner. All the great movements of our day, one after the other—romanticism, naturalism—had been effected independently of her, or even against her will. If a book were not restricted to the simplest tales, or pleasing fiction ending in virtue rewarded and vice punished, that was enough; the propriety of beadledom was at once ready to bray. As soon as the most modern form of art, the most malleable and the broadest—the Novel—touched on scenes of real life, depicted passion, became a psychological study, an effort of analysis, the army of bigots fell back all along the line. The Catholic force, which might have been thought better prepared than any others to contest the ground which theology had long since explored, retired in good order, satisfied to cover its retreat by firing from a safe distance, with its old-fashioned match-lock blunderbusses, on works it had neither inspired nor written. The Church party, centuries behind the time, and having made no attempt to follow the evolution of style in the course of ages, now turned to the rustic who can scarcely read; it did not understand more than half of the words used by modern writers, and had become, it must be said, a camp of the illiterate. Incapable of distinguishing the good from the bad, it included in one condemnation the filth of pornography and real works of art; in short, it ended by emitting such folly and talking such preposterous nonsense, that it fell into utter discredit and ceased to count at all. And it would have been so easy for it to work on a little way, to try to keep up with the times, and to understand, to convince itself whether in any given work the author was writing up the Flesh, glorifying it, praising it, and nothing more, or whether, on the contrary, he depicted it merely to buffet it—hating it. And, again, it would have done well to convince itself that there is a chaste as well as a prurient nude, and that it should not cry shame on every picture in which the nude is shown. Above all, it ought to have recognized that vices may well be depicted and studied with a view to exciting disgust of them and showing their horrors.

Downdraughts and Upwellings Just the mention of a downcurrent is enough to inspire fear in many divers as they visualize themselves getting caught by an irresistible force that drags them into the abyss with no opportunity for escape. The natural response when confronted with a situation like this where you feel out of control is to panic but there is no need. Normally, downdraughts or downcurrents are localized phenomena that occur along reef walls: think of them as waterfalls in the sea. When you encounter one, the first thing to do is get out of the flow by moving closer in to the wall so that the contours offer you shelter. Once out of the stream, relax, exhale, take a few deep full breaths, check your air supply, depth and decompression status, look around you and plan. Look to see where the big fish are hiding or if there is a place where the sea whips are not waving around. It is not a good idea to fight a downcurrent. It is a struggle you cannot win. The oft-quoted tactic of inflating your BCD to counteract its efforts to carry you down is potentially dangerous as the current might suddenly release you from its hold and you will find yourself on a runaway ascent to the surface, which will do you much more harm than the current could do. Unless you have spotted a place further along the wall that seems calm, usually the best advice is to swim laterally out away from the reef towards the blue. If you find yourself being carried a little deeper initially, stay calm and keep swimming, you will emerge from the pull of the downcurrent before long or its effect will weaken and allow you to begin your ascent and return to the wall. Think of upwellings as reverse down currents. The same advice applies. First move into the wall out of the flow, relax, think, observe and act calmly.

On August 18, 1941, Officer John Gillespie Magee, Jr. of the Royal Canadian Air Force took a new airplane, the Spitfire Mk I, on a test flight. Magee had received his wings as a pilot only two months earlier. As he flew the Spitfire up to new heights of 33,000 feet, he felt inspired to write a poem that has now become the official poem of both the Royal Canadian Air Force and the British Royal Air Force. Short films have been created with this poem as a basis. In its entirety or in part, the poem can be found in songs, on headstones, in presidential addresses, in museums, and in eulogies. Some have even used it as a prayer. High Flight Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of earth And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings; Sunward I’ve climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth Of sun-split clouds—and done a hundred things You have not done—wheeled and soared and swung High in the sunlit silence. Hov’ring there, I’ve chased the shouting wind along, and flung My eager craft through footless halls of air. Up, up the long, delirious blue I’ve topped the windswept heights with easy grace Where never lark, or even eagle flew. And, while with silent, lifting mind I’ve trod The high, untrespassed sanctity of space, Put out my hand, and touched the face of God.

Observatories are built on mountains to raise them above the thick, turbulent lower levels of the atmosphere. In principle, the higher the telescope the better. In practice, the expense of building mountain roads and the severity of high-altitude weather inspires a willingness to compromise. Mauna Kea Observatory in Hawaii, which may be the highest observatory that will ever be built on Earth, stands at nearly 14,000 feet, where gale-force winds are common and the air so thin that higher brain functions are impaired by lack of oxygen. Astronomers quartered halfway down the mountain write themselves childishly simple instructions they hope their muddled brains will be able to obey when they go up to the dome to observe.

Legal and political theory have committed much mischief by failing to pinpoint physical invasion as the only human action that should be illegal and that justifies the use of physical violence to combat it." In the law of torts, "harm" is generally treated as physical invasion of person or property. The outlawing of defamation (libel and slander) has always been a glaring anomaly in tort law. Words and opinions are not physical invasions. Analogous to the loss of property value from a better product or a shift in consumer demand, no one has a property right in his "reputation." Reputation is strictly a function of the subjective opinions of other minds, and they have the absolute right to their own opinions whatever they may be. Hence, outlawing defamation is itself a gross invasion of the defamer's right of freedom of speech, which is a subset of his property right in his own person. An even broader assault on freedom of speech is the modern Warren-Brandeis-inspired tort of invasion of the alleged right of "privacy," which outlaws free speech and acts using one's own property that are not even false or "malicious." In the law of torts, "harm" is generally treated as physical invasion of person or property and usually requires payment of damages for "emotional" harm if and only if that harm is a consequence of physical invasion. Thus, within the standard law of trespass — an invasion of person or property — "battery" is the actual invasion of someone else's body, while "assault" is the creation by one person in another of a fear, or apprehension, of battery. To be a tortious assault and therefore subject to legal action, tort law wisely requires the threat to be near and imminent. Mere insults and violent words, vague future threats, or simple possession of a weapon cannot constitute an assault18; there must be accompanying overt action to give rise to the apprehension of an imminent physical battery. Or, to put it another way, there must be a concrete threat of an imminent battery before the prospective victim may legitimately use force and violence to defend himself. Physical invasion or molestation need not be actually "harmful" or inflict severe damage in order to constitute a tort. The courts properly have held that such acts as spitting in someone's face or ripping off someone's hat are batteries. Chief Justice Holt's words in 1704 still seem to apply: "The least touching of another in anger is a battery." While the actual damage may not be substantial, in a profound sense we may conclude that the victim's person was molested, was interfered with, by the physical aggression against him, and that hence these seemingly minor actions have become legal wrongs. (2/2)

But for all that American industrial brawn and organizational ability could do, for all that the British and Canadians and other allies could contribute, for all the plans and preparations, for all the brilliance of the deception scheme, for all the inspired leadership, in the end success or failure in Operation Overlord came down to a relatively small number of junior officers, noncoms, and privates or seamen in the American, British, and Canadian armies, navies, air forces, and coast guards. If the paratroopers and gliderborne troops cowered behind hedgerows or hid out in barns rather than actively seek out the enemy; if the coxswains did not drive their landing craft ashore but instead, out of fear of enemy fire, dropped the ramps in too-deep water; if the men at the beaches dug in behind the seawall; if the noncoms and junior officers failed to lead their men up and over the seawall to move inland in the face of enemy fire—why, then, the most thoroughly planned offensive in military history, an offensive supported by incredible amounts of naval firepower, bombs, and rockets, would fail.

Poet Ayoade, the first African immigrant to serve as a nuclear missile operator in the United States Air Force, debuts with an inspirational memoir chronicling his childhood in Nigeria and journey to become a doctor and American citizen. Ayoade, who at the age of seven promised his mother “One day, I will take you far away from here,” details his upbringing with an abusive father and the many family tragedies he endured—along with his dedication to creating a different life: “Underground is my unusual journey from childhood poverty to where I am today. How the impossible became a reality.” Readers will be swept into Ayoade’s vivid recollections of his early years, including his strict education, brushes with death, and a strained relationship with his father. He recounts the family’s passion for American movies that made “America seem like the perfect place,” sparking his desire for a better future, and details his decision to become a veterinarian and eventually pursue a career in the U.S. military to ensure the best life for his family (and future generations). Ayoade’s story is moving, particularly his reconciliation with his father and hard-earned American citizenship, and his message that it’s never too late to chase your dreams resonates. That message will evoke strong emotions for readers as Ayoade highlights the importance of hard work and the benefit of a committed support system, alongside his constant “wishing, praying, and fighting to be free from all the sadness and injustice around me”—a theme that echoes through much of the book, including in his acknowledgement that the fear he experienced as a nuclear missile operator was a “cost of this freedom.” Ayoade’s poetry and personal photographs are sprinkled throughout, illuminating his deep love for family and his ultimate belief in liberty as “The reason for it all./ A foundation for a new generation,/ The best gift to any child.” Takeaway: This stirring memoir documents an immigrant’s fight for the American dream. Great for fans of: Ashley C. Ford’s Somebody's Daughter, Maria Hinojosa’s Once I Was You. Production grades Cover: A- Design and typography: A Illustrations: A Editing: A Marketing copy: A

In a flash it came to me - might not people who were forced to spend their working hours between walls like to hear about what went on in a hill-top croft, of how it was possible to get an immense amount of fun and satisfaction out of lifting loads of mud into a cart, even though your boots were leaking and you knew there was not enough in the kitty to buy another pair? Would they like to know about the way light could stream down a blue hillside on a spring noon, how a lark could suddenly leap into a pale, washed skye after a night of storm and make the air ring with song, of how it was possible to get by every sort of difficulty as long as there was this knowledge that you were all in it together, this solidarity with rock and sun and bird? I believed they would.

Earth and air, fire and water, the stars in their courses, the high tide of destiny and the Will of divine Providence are all arrayed against the forces of oppression. -- Louis Gregory

You feed the requisite substance through personal development efforts and position yourself strategically to allow the forces around you to create the path for your relevance and significance. You are not lifted by air, but by the substance inside you hitting the springboard of opportunity.

To lose my thoughts and beliefs, and to find my soul, I go to both friend and enemy, my teacher, my guide, my home, my escape, my questions and answers, my thirst and my eagerness, my passion, my hunger and craving, my sorrow and happiness, my source and inspiration. I'm speaking of Nature, that gives us literally everything we know. From our knowledge, medicine, food, water, air, clothing and shelter, to its creative and medicinal/restorative ways of making us feel deeply and spiritually connected to life when spending time in nature, and its mezmerizing confrontation with the profound mysteries in life. Bringing us, no matter who we are and where we are from, in contact with the past and future, with the cycles of life, with the tasty and the toxic, the good and the bad, the micro and the macro, the soft and the hard, the ugly and the beautiful, the death and re-birth, the ebbs & the flows, the wholeness and relationship & inter-relatedness of nature and life itself. Its incredible diversity in all her glory that teaches us that we absolutely without a doubt must avoid the forcing/pressure of standardization of protocols/constucts/models in which just one way of living or model of development predominates. I believe our purpose is quiet simple. It is to love. To love oneself and each other, to love all life and to love our Mother Earth for She teaches us, nurtures us, feeds us and shelter us, and for eventually we will turn into Earth. Life is beautiful because it does not last forever.

the practitioner perceives the inner activity of the body as the manifestation of numerous energy currents (rlung). The term rlung literally means “moving air,” such as the “wind,” or the “breath.” Here it refers to subtle energy currents that move throughout the body. They move in channels (rtsa), which become increasingly discernible with experience. The quality of movement of these currents as well as their direction are correlated with both the rhythm of the breath and the flow of events within the mental continuum. The more chaotic the elaboration of thought within the mental continuum, the greater the disorganization of energy flow within the body. There are five main channels (rlung lnga) as well as numerous subsidiary ones (yan lag gi rlung) described in the Buddhist tantras. Each of the five main channels is associated with one of the five elements (’byung ba lnga), one of the five conflicting emotional states (nyon mong), one of the coarse bodily functions, and one of the body points. Table 6 gives these correlations. TABLE 6: CORRELATION OF ENERGY CURRENTS WITH BODY POINTS AND PHYSIOLOGICAL FUNCTIONSa Name of Energy Current Related Body Points Physiological Function 1. Inspiration (thur sel) Crossed legs Excretion 2. Expiration (kyen rgyu) Hands in equipose Speaking 3. Firelike (me mnyam) Spine and upper trunk Digestion 4. All-pervasive (khyab byed) Neck and tongue Muscular activity 5. Vital force (srog ’dzin) Gaze Breathing a

Then, out of the blue, I had the ah ha moment of inspiration at one of our 3rd SPG reunions as I listened to everyone reminisce. I realized our stories connected us to one another.

En haut, au cœur de la montagne, la Couleuvre rampa et se blottit. Lovée au sein d’une crevasse humide, elle regardait la mer. Le soleil brillait haut dans le ciel. Dans le ciel les sommets exhalaient leur chaleur. A leurs pieds les vagues venaient se briser... Au fond d’une gorge noyée d’obscurité et d’embruns, dans un tonnerre de pierres, un torrent se précipitait vers la mer… Tout en écume blanche, puissant et grisonnant, il fendait la roche et, hurlant de colère, se jetait dans les flots. Soudain du ciel, dans la crevasse où la Couleuvre se blottissait, tomba le Faucon, la poitrine déchirée, les plumes ensanglantées... Dans un cri bref, il s’était écrasé, et, plein de colère impuissante, frappait de sa poitrine l’âpreté de la pierre... D'abord, la Couleuvre effrayée recula, mais bientôt elle comprit que l’oiseau blessé n’avait plus longtemps à vivre… Elle rampa et, fixant le Faucon droit dans les yeux, lui siffla : - Quoi, voilà donc que tu meurs ? - Oui, je meurs ! lui répondit l’oiseau dans un profond soupir. Je meurs mais j’ai vécu dans la gloire !... J'ai connu la félicité !… J’ai combattu vaillamment !… J'ai vu le ciel comme jamais tu ne sauras t’en approcher !... Pauvre créature ! - Le ciel !?… Qu'est-ce le ciel pour moi ? Un espace vide où je ne puis ramper. Ici je me sens bien : il y fait si douillettement chaud et humide ! Ainsi répondit la Couleuvre à l'oiseau épris de liberté, gloussant au fond d’elle-même de devoir écouter de pareilles sornettes. Ainsi pensait l’ophidien : "Qu’on vole ou bien qu’on rampe, chacun connaît ici la fin : tous nous reposerons sous terre et tout finira en poussière..." Mais le Faucon tenta de se soulever, dressa la tête et porta son regard alentour. Au fond de cette gorge, dans cette obscurité, l'eau suintait entre les pierres grises, l’air était suffocant et puait la charogne. Alors le Faucon rassemblant toutes ses forces laissa échapper un cri de douleur et de chagrin : - Oh, que ne puis-je une dernière fois m’envoler et rejoindre le ciel ! Là, j’étreindrais mon ennemi… contre ma poitrine et... il s’étoufferait de mon sang ! Ô, Ivresse de la bataille !... L’entendant ainsi gémir la Couleuvre se dit : "Comme il doit être bon de vivre dans le ciel !" Elle proposa à l’oiseau épris de liberté : "Va, approche-toi du gouffre et précipite-toi dans le vide. Et qui sait ? tes ailes te porteront. Ainsi te sera-t-il donné de vivre encore un instant dans ce monde qui est le tien." Le Faucon frémit et fièrement dans un cri s'approcha de l’abîme, s’agrippant de ses griffes, rampant sur la pierre glissante. Arrivé au bord du précipice, il déploya ses ailes, prit une profonde inspiration ; ses yeux clignèrent plusieurs fois et il se jeta dans le vide. Il tomba plus vite qu’une pierre et se brisa les ailes, dévalant et roulant sur les roches, y laissant ses plumes… Le flot du ruisseau le saisit, le lava de son sang et l’inondant d’écume l’emporta vers la mer. Dans un rugissement de douleur, les vagues amères battaient contre les pierres... Le corps de l’oiseau à tout jamais disparut dans le vaste océan… »

En haut, au cœur de la montagne, la Couleuvre rampa et se blottit. Lovée au sein d’une crevasse humide, elle regardait la mer. Le soleil brillait haut dans le ciel. Dans le ciel les sommets exhalaient leur chaleur. A leurs pieds les vagues venaient se briser... Au fond d’une gorge noyée d’obscurité et d’embruns, dans un tonnerre de pierres, un torrent se précipitait vers la mer… Tout en écume blanche, puissant et grisonnant, il fendait la roche et, hurlant de colère, se jetait dans les flots. Soudain du ciel, dans la crevasse où la Couleuvre se blottissait, tomba le Faucon, la poitrine déchirée, les plumes ensanglantées... Dans un cri bref, il s’était écrasé, et, plein de colère impuissante, frappait de sa poitrine l’âpreté de la pierre... D'abord, la Couleuvre effrayée recula, mais bientôt elle comprit que l’oiseau blessé n’avait plus longtemps à vivre… Elle rampa et, fixant le Faucon droit dans les yeux, lui siffla : - Quoi, voilà donc que tu meurs ? - Oui, je meurs ! lui répondit l’oiseau dans un profond soupir. Je meurs mais j’ai vécu dans la gloire !... J'ai connu la félicité !… J’ai combattu vaillamment !… J'ai vu le ciel comme jamais tu ne sauras t’en approcher !... Pauvre créature ! - Le ciel !?… Qu'est-ce le ciel pour moi ? Un espace vide où je ne puis ramper. Ici je me sens bien : il y fait si douillettement chaud et humide ! Ainsi répondit la Couleuvre à l'oiseau épris de liberté, gloussant au fond d’elle-même de devoir écouter de pareilles sornettes. Ainsi pensait l’ophidien : "Qu’on vole ou bien qu’on rampe, chacun connaît ici la fin : tous nous reposerons sous terre et tout finira en poussière..." Mais le Faucon tenta de se soulever, dressa la tête et porta son regard alentour. Au fond de cette gorge, dans cette obscurité, l'eau suintait entre les pierres grises, l’air était suffocant et puait la charogne. Alors le Faucon rassemblant toutes ses forces laissa échapper un cri de douleur et de chagrin : - Oh, que ne puis-je une dernière fois m’envoler et rejoindre le ciel ! Là, j’étreindrais mon ennemi… contre ma poitrine et... il s’étoufferait de mon sang ! Ô, Ivresse de la bataille !... L’entendant ainsi gémir la Couleuvre se dit : "Comme il doit être bon de vivre dans le ciel !" Elle proposa à l’oiseau épris de liberté : "Va, approche-toi du gouffre et précipite-toi dans le vide. Et qui sait ? tes ailes te porteront. Ainsi te sera-t-il donné de vivre encore un instant dans ce monde qui est le tien." Le Faucon frémit et fièrement dans un cri s'approcha de l’abîme, s’agrippant de ses griffes, rampant sur la pierre glissante. Arrivé au bord du précipice, il déploya ses ailes, prit une profonde inspiration ; ses yeux clignèrent plusieurs fois et il se jeta dans le vide. Il tomba plus vite qu’une pierre et se brisa les ailes, dévalant et roulant sur les roches, y laissant ses plumes… Le flot du ruisseau le saisit, le lava de son sang et l’inondant d’écume l’emporta vers la mer. Dans un rugissement de douleur, les vagues amères battaient contre les pierres... Le corps de l’oiseau à tout jamais disparut dans le vaste océan…

The Ascending Eagle by Stewart Stafford I shall not stray down spurious alleys, In pursuit of such desiccated husks, To be a leaf adrift in vacuous air, Bewildered on my windswept path. Past the labyrinth of rustling choices, Swirl fragments of doubt and error. Life's force is a finite magic spark, Some squander before they depart, When climbing into our grave pits, Twisted wreckage we leave behind. Yet, in regret's deepening shades, Lie orphans of our broken dreams. The eagle, in cerulean-skied flight, Took wing as a frightened chick, Victory plucked from disaster's beak, Trial and error are brick-tough fellows. Guided by shimmering thermals below, Soaring to its future beyond the horizon. © 2024, Stewart Stafford. All rights reserved.

À Ion Ghica, Jassy 2 janvier 1861, Mon cher vieux, Les chasse-neige et les dégels m’ont retenu jusqu’à ce jour dans cette maudite ville de Jassy qui depuis deux ans prend un caractère de ville de province à faire crisper les séparatistes. Voici déjà deux mois que ma valise est faite et que j’attends un caprice favorable du baromètre pour me mettre en route, mais pendant que cet instrument fallacieux indique le beau fixe, il pleut, il neige, il vente, il gèle, il dégèle, bref il fait un temps ultra. Force m’a été donc de m’armer de patience et de fourrure pour attendre un moment plus opportun, car la Galicie m’inspire des terreurs de 1793. J’ai profité de ce contretemps pour revoir le Prince, avec lequel j’ai longuement parlé de toi. Je ne rapporterai pas tout ce que le Prince m’a dit de flatteur sur ton compte, je crois devoir te faire part de son étonnement à la vue d’un certain rapprochement qui se serait produit dernièrement entre toi et les Bratiano et consorts. Un pareil accouplement est-il possible ? Je déclare que non, car si l’on a vu s'accoupler des carpes avec des lapins (la chose est encore en doute dans le monde la science) on n'a pas encore vu se produire ce phénomène monstrueux entre des hommes sensés comme toi et des sauteurs burlesques comme les Berlikoko et Jean Bratiano. La politique serait-elle donc une entremetteuse aussi adroite ? J’ai appris aussi que notre ami Balaciano serait monté actuellement au plus haut degré de l’échelle de la colère au sujet de la question hongroise. Voudrait-il par hasard que le Prince se rendît solidaire des mouvements magyars au détriment probable des intérêts roumains de la Transylvaine ? Le Prince n’est pas le geôlier de l’Autriche et certainement son gouvernement ne commettra jamais l’infamie de rendre les émigrés hongrois aux autorités autrichiennes. Mais est-ce à dire pour cela qu’il jette son va-tout en l’air, au risque de compromettre la situation politique du pays ? Quoiqu’il en soit Balaciano peut compter que rien ne sera entrepris contre l'honneur et les véritables intérêts des Principautés. Il répondra à cela des choses spirituelles, tant mieux pour lui, plus il évacuera de l’esprit, et plus il sera soulagé ! J’ai envoyé, comme tu sais, plusieurs pièces de théâtre à Millo. Qu’en a-t-il fait ? A-t-il l'intention de les monter ? Fais-moi le plaisir de lui demander de me répondre de suite pour que ta lettre me trouve encore à Jassy. Envoie-moi aussi par la première occasion un numéro de « Păcală » où se trouve insérée « La Complainte du conservateur ». Adieu mon cher vieux je t’embrasse et te prie de présenter mes amitiés à Madame Ghica ainsi qu’à tous nos amis et connaissances. Tout à toi, V. Alecsandri.

The English aristocracy knew better how to work together; the reason perhaps being that, whereas in France the parliament passed into the hands of the lawyers and so became an instrument of the crown, in England it remained an organ of the social authorities and a rallying-point for their opposition. So well did it understand the art of giving to its resistance a plausible show of public advantage that the Magna Carta, to take one instance, though in reality nothing more than a capitulation of the king to vested interests acting in their own defence, contained phrases about law and liberty which are valid for all time. Whereas the French nobles got themselves known to the people as petty tyrants, often more unruly and exacting than a great one would be, the English nobles managed to convey to the yeoman class of free proprietors the feeling that they too were aristocrats on a small scale, with interests to defend in common with the nobles. This island English aristocracy achieved its master-stroke in 1689. With Harrington rather than John Locke for inspiration, it riveted on the Power given the king whom it had brought from overseas limits so cleverly contrived that they were to last a long time. The essential instrument of Power is the army. An article of the Bill of Rights made standing armies illegal, and the Mutiny Act sanctioned courts martial and imposed military discipline for the space of only a year; in this way, the government was compelled to summon Parliament every year to bring the army to life again, as it were, when it was on the verge of legal dissolution. Hence the fact that, even today, there are the “Royal” Navy and the “Royal” Air Force, but not the “Royal” Army. In this way, the tradition of the Army's dependence on Parliament is preserved.

The sea and the albatross Far away in the deep sea, An albatross flew every day and sometimes looked at me, It sometimes flapped its wings rigorously, And then glided so calmly, Over the waves of wind and the ocean of air, It looked majestic and I wondered what was its affair, That compelled it to bear long flights everyday, Because it only returned when the evening lights had invaded the day, And to find out its secret there was no way, Yet I hoped I shall know it someway, It was a rough day and the sea had turned violent, My boat was being tossed everywhere in this torrent, The wind howled, the sea roared and everything appeared agitated, And to venture into such a rough sea even the valour of the mariners like me hesitated, So I stayed at the shore, While the albatross flew through this violent uproar, It swung its wings up and down with great effort, As if from this toil of mind and muscle, it gained some unknown comfort, After few moments it was far away, that I could no longer see it, But everyone could hear the beating of his wings, only if you had the mariner’s heart to feel it, And looking at the albatross, I too ventured into the sea, And I recalled the mariner’s only oath, “whatever shall be shall be!” The wind played with me and my boat like a finless fish caught in the tempest, And it overpowered us inpsite of our efforts best, For a moment I thought it was asinine on my part to have felt brave like an albatross, Who sometimes sits on the hull of my boat where I have erected a cross, I looked at it and used all my force left in me, And my heart and mind said together, “let us see how strong the sea can be!” And then the sea turned rougher, the waves rose higher, But I too worked with the muscle of will and mind, with conviction stronger, It was evening now and I stood in the middle of the rough sea where they said everything sinks, I saw the albatross caught in the discarded net, and it was struggling to free itself from these nylon links, Maybe I was courageous today not to catch fish but to rescue the master of the skies, And it shall be a shame for all mariners and our oath of courage, if today in this discarded net the albatross dies,

All leaders were equal at the conference table, but those from heavyweight countries showed that they were more equal by arriving in big private jets, the British in their VC 10s and Comets, and the Canadians in Boeings. The Australians joined this select group in 1979, after Malcolm Fraser's government purchased a Boeing 707 for the Royal Australian Air Force. Those African presidents whose countries were then better off, like Kenya and Nigeria, also had special aircraft. I wondered why they did not set out to impress the world that they were poor and in dire need of assistance. Our permanent representative at the UN in New York explained that the poorer the country, the bigger the Cadillacs they hired for their leaders. So I made a virtue of arriving by ordinary commercial aircraft, and thus helped preserve Singapore's third World status for many years. However, by the mid-1990s, the World Bank refused to heed our pleas not to reclassify us as a "High Income Developing Country", giving no Brownie points for my frugal travel habits. We lost all the concessions that were given to developing countries.

A leaf and you! A leaf from tree, in Autumn fell, It had a story to tell, As it swayed in the lap of air, Nobody noticed the act unfair, For it alone fell, The rest clung to the branches and didn’t experience hell, Which they all would someday, Few early, few later, few did yesterday and the leaf that just fell, experienced it today, It did not shout, it did not scream or yell, As it thought of moments, few lived in agony and few lived so well, Finally it rested on the surface of the bare ground, And every natural force leapt on it like a famished hound, To consume it in their own ways, For death has a game that it with all plays, So time kissed it, life forsook it, gravity constricted it; and finally it was lost, there was nothing left of it, Just a memory of a falling leaf that everyone consumed bit by bit, bit by bit, Surprising that time sometimes moans its departure, Because it had reared it in its lap with love and composure, Alas time the greatest force of all, is the most cursed of all, For in the end it loses everything to its own existential virtues, and kills us all, Then it lies there moaning the loss, Whenever a beautiful corner of life that it loved it does happen to pass, Just like the leaf that fell and was forever lost, There on the branch a moment of time hangs still seeking the past, For it loved the leaf, but it had duty to perform as well, So it mournfully stood there as the leaf fell, It buried it too, And then it hurried too, For it had new leaves to tend, A new leaf to break and bend, To keep gravity happy, who blames time for all crimes, But it is someone else who in shadows creates these moments of depraved times, And lays the blame on time, the eternal subject of everyone's hate, But time has a companion who shares this blame, we all know it as fate, However, the real force lies in the shadows always plotting to bend and break a leaf, And blame it all on time, the eternal and infamous thief, Who actually steals nothing, because it is always losing a part of it, Whenever present becomes past, it loses its own precious bit, It always has been so, and maybe it will always be so, until time has nothing to spare any more, Then the Universe shall fall apart because then it shall not be needed anymore, And a new order shall rise, a new leaf shall emerge and grow, Then time shall rule every place high and low, Then my darling Irma, I will love you again, and again, Because then my love, a moment of love, shall be a lifelong gain, Where every kiss shall be remembered and felt again and again, And you shall not hurt me, and I shall not have the power to cause you any pain, Because now time will be judging us all in the present, A gift that indeed is the precious moment in the present, So my love Irma, love me now, but love me true, Before another leaf falls and as long as the sky is still happy and blue!

Love! How many legends were organized for it? It was said that it is the most mysterious human feeling that pushes us to do things we are not ready for and heedless of us. Despite the reality, and the difficulties, we do the impossible, and in the name of love, we do miracles. Just legends but the truth is that history did not mention that any miracle has happened thanks to love. Myths, of which there is no use but our consolation, and the justification of our blind rush behind unjustified, incomprehensible feelings, to do what we were not ready to do, and then we pay the price with a reassuring conscience, and with a comfortable mind, in the name of love. If we analyze these feelings, love, anger, hate, tranquility, fear, we will find that they are another face of pain, just chemical reactions inside our bodies, and hormones controlled by our mind, it decides when to kindle the fire of love in us, and when to make hate blind us. If you know how to motivate the mind to produce the hormone needed to produce the desired emotions, then you do not have to talk about anything anymore. It is all your emotions, which are yours. This inevitably makes human feelings subject to causation in the universe, unless our feelings are from another world, not causal. Therefore, the most magical words remain, those that come out of the mouth of a lover describing his love for his lover, “I love you without reason.” This is the impossibility desired, and in the subconscious, these words have charm and glamour, and the tongue of the lover says, “My love for you is not from this causal world, neither the color of your hair, nor your eyes, nor your body, nor your sweet voice, nor your way of speaking, nor anything that you possess is a reason why I love you, because my love for you is not causal, does not belong to this world.” A lie loved by the mind of the lovers, a legend among the millions which says, that nothing in this world can anticipate the feelings and moods of human beings before they occur, and more precisely, the private feelings and fluctuations, of an individual, to be precise, and not just of a large group of people, the more we try to customize it, the more difficult it becomes. And where the indicators of the collective mind, the demagogue, can give us an idea of the general direction and the future fluctuations of a society or group of people, not because of a weakness in the lines of defense of feelings, but rather because we know that the mob, the collective mind, and the herd, will force many to follow it, even if it violates what they feel, what they want at their core. The mind is designed for survival, and you know that survival’s chances are stronger with the stronger group, the more number, it will secrete all the necessary hormones, to force you to follow the herd. However, the feelings assigned to a particular person remain an impossible task, so many people are able to deceive each other by showing signs of expected trends and fluctuations that contradict the reality of what they feel. Humans and scientists have treated it as something unpredictable, coming from another world, a curse on science, as if it were a whiff of a magical spell cast on us from the immemorial. But in fact, emotions are causal, and every cause has a causative. Like everything else in this world, the laws of chaos and randomness apply to them. They can be accurately predicted, formulated into mathematical equations, and even manipulated. All it takes is to have something that contains all the cosmic events, a number we did not imagine, starting with the flutter of a butterfly, a breath of air, temperatures across the universe, a word a man says to his son, a donkey’s kick, a rabbit’s jump, and ending with the movement of stars and planets, and cosmic explosions, and beyond, and able to deal with them, and with the hierarchical possibilities of their occurrence.

The only reason I have alluded to this is that the ascetic ideal has, for the present, even in the most spiritual sphere, only one type of real enemy and injurer: these are the comedians of this ideal – because they arouse mistrust. Everywhere else where spirit is at work in a rigorous, powerful and honest way, it now completely lacks an ideal – the popular expression for this abstinence is ‘atheism’ –: except for its will to truth. But this will, this remnant of an ideal, if you believe me, is that ideal itself in its strictest, most spiritual formulation, completely eso- teric, totally stripped of externals, and thus not so much its remnant as its kernel. Unconditional, honest atheism (– its air alone is what we breathe, we more spiritual men of the age!) is therefore not opposed to the ascetic ideal as it appears to be; instead, it is only one of the ideal’s last phases of development, one of its final forms and inherent logical conclusions, – it is the awe-inspiring catastrophe of a two-thousand-year discipline in truth-telling, which finally forbids itself the lie entailed in the belief in 127 ‘the religion of suffering’. 118 Third essay God. (The same process of development in India, completely independ- ently, which therefore proves something; the same ideal forcing the same conclusion; the decisive point was reached five centuries before the European era began, with Buddha or, more precisely: already with the Sankhya philosophy subsequently popularized by Buddha and made into a religion.) What, strictly speaking, has actually conquered the Christian God? The answer is in my Gay Science (section 357):128 ‘Christian moral- ity itself, the concept of truthfulness which was taken more and more seriously, the confessional punctiliousness of Christian conscience, trans- lated and sublimated into scientific conscience, into intellectual rigour at any price. Regarding nature as though it were a proof of God’s goodness and providence; interpreting history in honour of divine reason, as a con- stant testimonial to an ethical world order and ethical ultimate purpose; explaining all one’s own experiences in the way pious folk have done for long enough, as though everything were providence, a sign, intended, and sent for the salvation of the soul: now all that is over, it has conscience against it, every sensitive conscience sees it as indecent, dishonest, as a pack of lies, feminism, weakness, cowardice, – this severity makes us good Europeans if anything does, and heirs to Europe’s most protracted and bravest self-overcoming!’ . . . All great things bring about their own demise through an act of self-sublimation: that is the law of life, the law of necessary ‘self-overcoming’ in the essence of life, – the lawgiver himself is always ultimately exposed to the cry: ‘patere legem, quam ipse tulisti’.129 In this way, Christianity as a dogma was destroyed by its own morality, in the same way Christianity as a morality must also be destroyed, – we stand on the threshold of this occurrence. After Christian truthfulness has drawn one conclusion after another, it will finally draw the strongest con- clusion, that against itself; this will, however, happen when it asks itself, ‘What does all will to truth mean?’ . . . and here I touch on my problem again, on our problem, my unknown friends (– because I don’t know of any friend as yet): what meaning does our being have, if it were not that that will to truth has become conscious of itself as a problem in us? . . . Without a doubt, from now on, morality will be destroyed by the will to truth’s becoming-conscious-of-itself: that great drama in a hundred acts reserved for Europe in the next two centuries, the most terrible, most questionable drama but perhaps also the one most rich in hope . . .

Photographs from Distant Places (1) In distant villages, You always see the same scenes: Farms Cattle Worship spaces Small local shops. Just basic the things humans need To endure life. (2) ‘Can you stay with me forever?’ She asked him in the airport, While hugging him tightly in her arms. ‘Sorry, I can’t. My flight leaves in two hours and a half.’ He responded with an artificially caring voice, As he kissed her on her right cheek. (3) I was walking in one of Bucharest’s old streets, In a neighborhood that looked harshly beaten by Time, And severely damaged by development and globalization. I saw a poor homeless man Combing his dirty hair In a side mirror of a modern and expensive car! (4) The shape and the color of the eyes don’t matter. What matters is that, As soon as you gaze into them, You know that they have seen a lot. All eyes that dare to bear witness To what they have seen are beautiful. (5) A stranger asked me how I chose my path in life. I told him: ‘I never chose anything, my friend.’ My path has always been like someone forced to sit In an airplane on a long flight. Forced to sit with the condition Of keeping the seatbelt on at all times, Until the end of the flight. Here I am still sitting with the seatbelt on. I can neither move Nor walk. I can’t even throw myself out of the plane’s emergency exit To end this forced flight! (6) After years of searching and observing, I discovered that despair’s favorite hiding place Is under business suits and tuxedos. Under jewelry and expensive night gowns. Despair dances at the tables where Expensive wines of corruption And delicious dinners of betrayal are served. (7) Oh, my poet friend, Did you know that The bouquet of fresh flowers in that vase On your table is not a source of inspiration or creativity? The vase is just a reminder Of a flower massacre that took place recently In a field Where these poor flowers happened to be. It was their fate to have their already short lives cut shorter, To wither and wilt in your vase, While breathing the not-so-fresh air In your room, As you sit down at your table And write your vain words. (8) Under authoritarian regimes, 99.9% of the population vote for the dictator. Under capitalist ‘democratic’ regimes, 99.9% of people love buying and consuming products Made and sold by the same few corporations. Awe to those societies where both regimes meet to create a united vicious alliance against the people! To create a ‘nation’ Of customers, not citizens! (9) The post-revolution leaders are scavengers not hunters. They master the art of eating up The dead bodies and achievements Of the fools who sacrificed themselves For the ‘revolution’ and its ideals. Is this the paradox and the irony of all revolutions? (10) Every person is ugly if you take a close look at them, And beautiful, if you take a closer look. (11) Just as wheat fields can’t thrive Under the shadow of other trees, Intellectuals, too, can’t thrive under the shadow Of any power or authority. (12) We waste so much time trying to change others. Others waste so much time thinking they are changing. What a waste! October 20, 2015

Why Do the Silent Winds Howl? by Maisie Aletha Smikle Winds gallop In velocity Velocity you can detect Velocity which other than the object being moved by the force of the air You cannot see neither can you touch Knots faster than the speed of light Churn in unified force To push everything except Mountains and lands out of sight The silent air of the wind moves Forcing and gushing through holes and crevices And hastens to vacuum plateaus Plains valleys meadows and sandy deserts Taking chattels fossils Structures and trees Anything its forces can carry Upon the wind arrival and contact with land and objects Nature sends off a howl or whistle Bringing all species to full attention As the silent wind moves With forces stronger than a million battalion No force can withstand such a force Neither air force space force Land force sea force or nuclear force All forces flee from the forces of this force Nature whistles Nature howls Nature pleads Stay away species stay away Else you'll be carried like fossils and pieces of species by the silent wind That says neither hello nor goodbye

We walk through things we could not fathom, conjure up strength from thin air and trek through the impossible. Somehow we are our strongest when we are at our weakest. There is a level of trouble where you have no control. Life forces you to submit to woe. You must surrender any power you think you have and live on faith. When life breaks you and sends you down on bended knee, you realize your strength. Surprisingly it is in our loss of power where resilience lives. We are tough when we realize we are fragile.

Trees constitute the environmental quality committee--running air and water purification service 24-7. They're on every task force, from the historical society picnic, to the highway department, school board and library. When it comes to civic beautification, they alone create the crimson fall with little recognition.

All that has happened let it flow in, all that flows in let it shape you, all that leaves let it go even if that crumbles you, let it all go, let it evaporate in the flames of Time. Don't regret any part of your life, any decision that you had once taken, because that's exactly what it needed to be like at that very moment to make you come this far in this exact space that you occupy now. Sometimes you would be happy with that present space and sometimes you won't, but when you find yourself distraught and broken in that state remind yourself that your journey is not over yet. Sometimes when you look back and see that in some parts of your Life, Life didn't treat you great, know that it isn't Life it is those few people and those chosen situations that Life had planned in chiselling you into your soul's very armour. Sometimes things that happen would never make sense but that's when you know that they are not meant to make sense and you accept them gracefully as a part of God's plans. That is when you learn to accept, in its absolute fullness. At times Life may look stagnant as if nothing makes sense and looking back you might like to put up questions before Life but then you have to keep going, one step at a time, seeping in every breath of air in a single moment, trying to nourish every bit of your soul and that is all around. Pain is immensely powerful and it can either ruin you entirely or form you into something beyond your imagination, but that only happens when you surrender to the summit of the pain and let it flow in each atom of your soul. Let your suffering absorb you into its shell, feel it, embrace it and above all cherish it. Not everyone is given the power to assemble a force so pure and so vulnerably strong. And then each time something comes with a face of anger, envy, fear or grief or anything that is disruptive you walk upon it gently with grace, a smile of calmness, the one that only the ocean finds to reduce the waves of a turbulent gust. That is the cost you have paid. Rather, that is the reward you have earned.

Aging with all my self. To my younger self, I'm not twenty-something anymore, and in just a month's time I shall walk into another decade of a whole new experience. I don't have youth on my side, but I have a heart of Life enlightened with the very spirit of Life itself, something that draws youth on its lap. Wisdom has been churned out from the mistakes and failures, and lessons have been disguised as soul fillers, and gratitude dances on my lips, waving my heart with a bunch of memories. Perhaps, the memories have been earned. Earned at the cost of those lost turns, cold betrayals, numb tears, forced smiles and a voyage walking through a rainbow of mad jest of Life. With that being said, I wouldn't go back and change even a bit. Through all of that heartache, I have unearthed a heart that is resilient, and pliant, I have met a soul that is strong and loving, and deeper than any thousand paged novel I could get lost in. I have come across beautiful souls in beautiful lands, I have soaked in different cultures and walked my way through observing hearts, listening to stories that run beyond time and tide. I have grown with each one of those smiles and tears, the sands of places that mark my soles make my soul whole in a strange but palpable tune. I have got lost in pathways and met a gypsy soul wandering in the space of infinite time, weaving moments through Life to take back a bunch of images and experiences from a journey called Life. My story has been filled with pages of ups and downs and my cup of Life has had several toxic turns, but in all of that, I have grown, along with one or two grey hair. My pages have often tasted Life in the most happy hue from voyages and dreams that kept overlapping and smiling across the tips of Time. And all of this, has helped me to nurture and nourish an invincible desire to live a life, with a passion no longer on hold, but a heart that is free forever to fly in the tunes of its own whisper. So as I open another day, walking closer to close the page of this twenty-something, I wear a smile that the youth of wisdom paints on my heart. And age, with all the grace that only Age can bring, while loving, forgiving and embracing my younger self in every air of Time. Love, a soul aging gracefully with the Smile of Life.