Luggage Bag Quotes

It’s dark because you are trying too hard. Lightly child, lightly. Learn to do everything lightly. Yes, feel lightly even though you’re feeling deeply. Just lightly let things happen and lightly cope with them. I was so preposterously serious in those days, such a humorless little prig. Lightly, lightly – it’s the best advice ever given me. When it comes to dying even. Nothing ponderous, or portentous, or emphatic. No rhetoric, no tremolos, no self conscious persona putting on its celebrated imitation of Christ or Little Nell. And of course, no theology, no metaphysics. Just the fact of dying and the fact of the clear light. So throw away your baggage and go forward. There are quicksands all about you, sucking at your feet, trying to suck you down into fear and self-pity and despair. That’s why you must walk so lightly. Lightly my darling, on tiptoes and no luggage, not even a sponge bag, completely unencumbered.

Sissy Mae Smith...stumbled into the room loaded down with even more bags. "You pack like a woman," she snarled when she finally dropped the luggage to the floor. "How can one man have so much conditioner?" His mouth filled with French toast, Mitch pointed at his hair and snarled, "Tawny mane! Do you think this shit stays this beautiful on its own? It needs care and love! Which is more than I'm getting from you!

- I was a tired mess. My eyes didn't just have bags - they had five-piece luggage sets.

He lifted my luggage off the floor. "You're not sleeping on the couch or the recliner. You're sleeping in my bed." "Which is more unsanitary than the couch, I'm sure." "There's never been anyone in my bed but me." I rolled my eyes. "Give me a break!" "I'm absolutely serious. I bag 'em on the couch. I don't let them in my room." "Then why am I allowed in your bed?" One corner of his mouth pulled up into an impish grin. "Are you planning on having sex with me tonight?" "No!" "That's why. Now get your cranky ass up, take your hot shower, and then we can study some Bio.

Childhood memories were like airplane luggage; no matter how far you were traveling or how long you needed them to last, you were only ever allowed two bags. And while those bags might hold a few hazy recollections—a diner with a jukebox at the table, being pushed on a swing set, the way it felt to be picked up and spun around—it didn’t seem enough to last a whole lifetime.

My ticket's been bought, and my luggage is packed. I'm storing both of my bags under my eyes. Or am I just tired from lying awake daydreaming of you?

Just as he reached for my neck, I tased him. I was there to bag and tag, not to kill. Besides, if I had to carry separate weapons for every paranormal I took out, I'd be dragging around a full luggage set. Tasers are a one-size-fits-all paranormal butt-kicking option. Mine's pink with rhinestones. Tasey and I have had a lot of good times together.

There are countries out there where people speak English. But not like us - we have our own languages hidden in our carry-on luggage, in our cosmetics bags, only ever using English when we travel, and then only in foreign countries, to foreign people. It's hard to imagine, but English is the real language! Oftentimes their only language. They don't have anything to fall back on or to turn to in moments of doubt. How lost they must feel in the world, where all instructions, all the lurics of all the stupidest possible songs, all the menus, all the excruciating pamphlets and brochures - even the buttons in the lift! - are in their private language. They may be understood by anuone at any moment, whenever they open their mouths. They must have to write things down in special codes. Wherever they are, people have unlimited access to them - they are accessible to everyone and everything! I heard there are plans in the works to get them some little language of their own, one of those dead ones no one else is using anyway, just so that for once they can have something just for them.

Every time I thought the bag must be empty, he brought yet another item out. It was like he'd hijacked Mary Poppins's luggage on her way to a fetish weekend.

Childhood memories were like airplane luggage; no matter how far you were traveling or how long you needed them to last, you were only ever allowed two bags

Just because you have baggage doesn't mean you have to lug it around.

Of course, like all the informal inhabitants of the University the roaches were a little unusual, but there was something particularly unpleasant about the sound of billions of very small feet hitting the stones in perfect time. Rincewind stepped gingerly over the marching column. The Librarian jumped it. The Luggage, of course, followed them with a noise like someone tapdancing over a bag of crisps.

What is it about women and luggage? You don’t have to bring everything you own, and it shouldn’t take this long to throw some clothes into a bag. In fact, if it will save you any time, just leave the underwear out all together.

YO MAMA SO POOR... Yo mama so poor when I saw her kicking a can down the street, I asked her what she was doing, she said "Moving." Yo mama so poor she can't afford to pay attention. Yo mama so poor when I ring the doorbell I hear the toilet flush. Yo mama so poor when she goes to KFC, she has to lick other people's fingers. Yo mama so poor she went to McDonald's and put a milkshake on layaway. Yo mama so poor your family ate cereal with a fork to save milk. Yo mama so poor her face is on the front of a foodstamp. Yo mama so poor she was in K-Mart with a box of garbage bags. I said, "What ya doin'?" She said, "Buying luggage." Yo mama so poor she waves around a popsicle stick and calls it air conditioning. Yo mama so poor she has the ducks throw bread at her.

The year was 1987, but it might as well have been the Summer of Love: I was twenty, had hair down to my shoulders, and was dressed like an Indian rickshaw driver. For those charged with enforcing our nation’s drug laws, it would have been only prudent to subject my luggage to special scrutiny. Happily, I had nothing to hide. “Where are you coming from?” the officer asked, glancing skeptically at my backpack. “India, Nepal, Thailand…” I said. “Did you take any drugs while you were over there?” As it happens, I had. The temptation to lie was obvious—why speak to a customs officer about my recent drug use? But there was no real reason not to tell the truth, apart from the risk that it would lead to an even more thorough search of my luggage (and perhaps of my person) than had already commenced. “Yes,” I said. The officer stopped searching my bag and looked up. “Which drugs did you take? “I smoked pot a few times… And I tried opium in India.” “Opium?” “Yes.” “Opium or heroin? “It was opium.” “You don’t hear much about opium these days.” “I know. It was the first time I’d ever tried it.” “Are you carrying any drugs with you now?” “No.” The officer eyed me warily for a moment and then returned to searching my bag. Given the nature of our conversation, I reconciled myself to being there for a very long time. I was, therefore, as patient as a tree. Which was a good thing, because the officer was now examining my belongings as though any one item—a toothbrush, a book, a flashlight, a bit of nylon cord—might reveal the deepest secrets of the universe. “What is opium like?” he asked after a time. And I told him. In fact, over the next ten minutes, I told this lawman almost everything I knew about the use of mind-altering substances. Eventually he completed his search and closed my luggage. One thing was perfectly obvious at the end of our encounter: We both felt very good about it.

It's dark because you're trying too hard," said Susila. "Dark because you want it to be light. Remember what you used to tell me when I was a little girl. 'Lightly, child, lightly. You've got to learn to do everything lightly. Think lightly, act lightly, feel lightly. Yes, feel lightly, even though you're feeling deeply. Just lightly let things happen and lightly cope with them.' I was so preposterously serious in those days, such a humorless little prig. Lightly, lightly—it was the best advice ever given me. Well, now I'm going to say the same thing to you, Lakshmi . . . Lightly, my darling, lightly. Even when it comes to dying. Nothing ponderous, or portentous, or emphatic. No rhetoric, no tremolos, no self-conscious persona putting on its celebrated imitation of Christ or Goethe or Little Nell. And, of course, no theology, no metaphysics. Just the fact of dying and the fact of the Clear Light. So throw away all your baggage and go forward. There are quicksands all about you, sucking at your feet, trying to suck you down into fear and self-pity and despair. That's why you must walk so lightly. Lightly, my darling. On tiptoes; and no luggage, not even a sponge bag. Completely unencumbered.

We all travelled light, taking with us only what we considered to be the bare essentials of life. When we opened our luggage for Customs inspection, the contents of our bags were a fair indication of character and interests. Thus Margo’s luggage contained a multitude of diaphanous garments, three books on slimming, and a regiment of small bottles each containing some elixir guaranteed to cure acne. Leslie’s case held a couple of roll-top pullovers and a pair of trousers which were wrapped round two revolvers, an air-pistol, a book called Be Your Own Gunsmith, and a large bottle of oil that leaked. Larry was accompanied by two trunks of books and a brief-case containing his clothes. Mother’s luggage was sensibly divided between clothes and various volumes on cooking and gardening. I travelled with only those items that I thought necessary to relieve the tedium of a long journey: four books on natural history, a butterfly net, a dog, and a jam-jar full of caterpillars all in imminent danger of turning into chrysalids. Thus, by our standards fully equipped, we left the clammy shores of England.

Childhood memories were like airplane luggage; no matter how far you were traveling or how long you needed them to last, you were only ever allowed two bags.

I looked at her luggage like an abandoned bag

If the bags under your eyes get any bigger, you’ll have to pay an oversize luggage fee.

I escaped out of the pitch-black customs area, and in the darkness everybody merged with their bags and suitcases, fusing together like shadows worn thin; they looked like ghosts, passing through a station to the other world. Carrying backpacks and pushing trolleys, as though the weight and bulk of their luggage were a final, definitive record of who they had been in life, like a funeral guestbook.

People in the real world always say, when something terrible happens, that the sadness and loss and aching pain of the heart will “lessen as time passes,” but it isn’t true. Sorrow and loss are constant, but if we all had to go through our whole lives carrying them the whole time, we wouldn’t be able to stand it. The sadness would paralyze us. So in the end we just pack it into bags and find somewhere to leave it. That is what Miploris is: a kingdom where lone storytelling travelers come slowly wandering from all directions, dragging unwieldy luggage full of sorrow. A place where they can put it down and go back to life. And when the travelers turn back, they do so with lighter steps, because Miploris is constructed in such a way that irrespective of what direction you leave it, you always have the sun up ahead and the wind at your back.

God's only way of building the rickety structure of Time, to hold the bags to send on the roads, to carry our luggage from place to place looking for a bus to ride us back home to Eternity where the heart was left and farewell tears began.

This trip began one lovely summer morning and nothing foretold of the troubles ahead. We didn’t know then what a huge mistake we had made: we did not bother to put locks on our travel bags or at least to wrap them. We were naïve and did not do anything to protect our luggage.

Her insanely high Christian Louboutin stilettos made a click-clacking sound on the airport floor. Amber rolled a small Louis Vuitton luggage bag behind her. She wore a baby-blue Chanel skirt suit, which made her look like an elegant celebrity. Her hair was long and blond today and pinned up into a perfectly smooth up-do. A pair of gold earrings in the shape of four-leaf clovers and a matching pendant completed the outfit.

First of all, you're going to talk to her and get the whole story. I know you're in shock but sitting around here all day fingering your va**na isn't going to make anything better. So man-up. Go talk to her. You spent all these years trying to find her and here she is, right in front of you. So she's got a little baggage. Who doesn't?" "A little baggage? Drew, she has a son. That's more than a little baggage," I complained. "Wake up and look in the mirror baby-daddy. He's your son too. And you spent the last few years trying to f**k her out of your system with some chick you could barely stand. That's not just baggage, that's luggage, bags, suitcases, carry-ons, back-packs and Clinique make-up bags.

The driver bumped his way through the door and plopped down Caitlyn’s “luggage.” Caitlyn watched Madame Snowe’s eyes go to it, widening as she took it in. Caitlyn’s cheeks heated. Her “luggage” was a Vietnam War-era army green duffel bag, bought for a dollar at a garage sale. Cloud-shaped moisture stains mottled its faded surface, and jagged stitches of black carpet thread sealed a rip on one end, Caitlyn’s clumsy needlework giving the mended hole the look of one of Frankenstein’s scars. “Is that all you brought?” Greta asked. Caitlyn nodded, wishing the floor would swallow her. “Very good. You will have no trouble unpacking, and then you can burn your bag, heh?” “Reduce, reuse, recycle!” Caitlyn said with false cheer. “We’re very big on living green in Oregon. Why buy a new suitcase when someone else’s old duffel bag will do?” “We’ll see that it gets … disposed of properly,

A RIPE EXPERIENCE OF GERMAN pillows in country places leads me to urge the intending traveller to be sure to take his own. The native pillows are mere bags, in which feathers may have been once. There is no substance in them at all. They are of a horrid flabbiness. And they have, of course, the common drawback of all public pillows, they are haunted by the nightmares of other people. A pillow, it is true, takes up a great deal of room in one’s luggage, but

Christy dug her hand deeper into her shoulder bag. Scanning the papers she finally located there, she found no phone numbers or addresses listed. All the plans had been made in such haste. All she knew was that someone was supposed to meet her here. She was here, and he or she wasn't. Never in her life had she felt so completely alone. Stranded with nowhere to turn. A prayer came quickly to her lips. "Father God, I'm at Your mercy here. I know You're in control. Please show me what to do." Suddenly she heard a voice calling to her. "Kilikina!" Christy's heart stopped. Only one person in the entire world had ever called her by her Hawaiian name. She spun around. "Kilikina," called out the tall, blond surfer who was running toward her. Christy looked up into the screaming silver-blue eyes that could only belong to one person. "Todd?" she whispered, convinced she was hallucinating. "Kilikina," Todd wrapped his arms around her so tightly that for an instant she couldn't breathe. He held her a long time. Crying. She could feel his warm tears on her neck. She knew this had to be real. But how could it be? "Todd?" she whispered again. "How? I mean, what...? I don't..." Todd pulled away, and for the first time she noticed the big gouquet of white carnations in his hand. They were now a bit squashed. "For you," he said, his eyes clearing and his rich voice sounding calm and steady. Then, seeing her shocked expression, he asked, "You really didn't know I was here, did you?" Christy shook her head, unable to find any words. "Didn't Dr. Benson tell you?" She shook her head again. "You mean you came all this way by yourself, and you didn't even know I was here?" Now it was Todd's turn to look surprised. "No, I thought you were in Papua New Guinea or something. I had no idea you were here!" "They needed me here more," Todd said with a chin-up gesture toward the beach. "It's the perfect place for me." With a wide smile spreading above his square jaw, he said, "Ever since I received the fax yesterday saying they were sending you, I've been out of my mind with joy! Kilikina, you can't imagine how I've been feeling." Christy had never heard him talk like this before. Todd took the bouquet from her and placed it on top of her luggage. Then, grasping both her quivering hands in his and looking into her eyes, he said, "Don't you see? There is no way you or I could ever have planned this. It's from God." The shocked tears finally caught up to Christy's eyes, and she blinked to keep Todd in focus. "It is," she agreed. "God brought us back together, didn't He?" A giggle of joy and delight danced from her lips. "Do you remember what I said when you gave me back your bracelet?" Todd asked. "I said that if God ever brought us back together, I would put that bracelet back on your wrist, and that time, it would stay on forever." Christy nodded. She had replayed the memory of that day a thousand times in her mind. It had seemed impossible that God would bring them back together. Christy's heart pounded as she realized that God, in His weird way, had done the impossible. Todd reached into his pocket and pulled out the "Forever" ID bracelet. He tenderly held Christy's wrist, and circling it with the gold chain, he secured the clasp. Above their heads a fresh ocean wind blew through the palm trees. It almost sounded as if the trees were applauding. Christy looked up from her wrist and met Todd's expectant gaze. Deep inside, Christy knew that with the blessing of the Lord, Todd had just stepped into the garden of her heart. In the holiness of that moment, his silver-blue eyes embraced hers and he whispered, "I promise, Kilikina. Forever." "Forever," Christy whispered back. Then gently, reverently, Todd and Christy sealed their forever promise with a kiss.

And then now a very strange argument indeed ensues, me v. the Lebanese porter, because it turns out I am putting this guy, who barely speaks English, in a terrible kind of sedulous-service double-bind, a paradox of pampering: viz. the The-Passenger’s-Always-Right-versus-Never-Let-A-Passenger-Carry-His-Own-Bag paradox. Clueless at the time about what this poor little Lebanese man is going through, I wave off both his high-pitched protests and his agonized expression as mere servile courtesy, and I extract the duffel and lug it up the hall to 1009 and slather the old beak with ZnO and go outside to watch the coast of Florida recede cinematically à la F. Conroy. Only later did I understand what I’d done. Only later did I learn that that little Lebanese Deck 10 porter had his head just about chewed off by the (also Lebanese) Deck 10 Head Porter, who’d had his own head chewed off by the Austrian Chief Steward, who’d received confirmed reports that a Deck 10 passenger had been seen carrying his own luggage up the Port hallway of Deck 10 and now demanded rolling Lebanese heads for this clear indication of porterly dereliction, and had reported (the Austrian Chief Steward did) the incident (as is apparently SOP) to an officer in the Guest Relations Dept., a Greek officer with Revo shades and a walkie-talkie and officerial epaulets so complex I never did figure out what his rank was; and this high-ranking Greek guy actually came around to 1009 after Saturday’s supper to apologize on behalf of practically the entire Chandris shipping line and to assure me that ragged-necked Lebanese heads were even at that moment rolling down various corridors in piacular recompense for my having had to carry my own bag. And even though this Greek officer’s English was in lots of ways better than mine, it took me no less than ten minutes to express my own horror and to claim responsibility and to detail the double-bind I’d put the porter in—brandishing at relevant moments the actual tube of ZnO that had caused the whole snafu—ten or more minutes before I could get enough of a promise from the Greek officer that various chewed-off heads would be reattached and employee records unbesmirched to feel comfortable enough to allow the officer to leave; 42 and the whole incident was incredibly frazzling and angst-fraught and filled almost a whole Mead notebook and is here recounted in only its barest psychoskeletal outline.

If anything, it was hotter in the house. Crazy July heat. It got in your head. The kitchen was full of dirty dishes. Flies buzzed around a green plastic Hefty bag filled with Beefaroni and tuna-fish cans. The living room was dominated by a big old Zenith black-and-white TV he had rescued from the Naples dump. A big spayed brindle cat, name of Bernie Carbo, slept on top of it like a dead thing. The bedroom was where he worked on his writing. The bed itself was a rollaway, not made, the sheets stiff with come. No matter how much he was getting (and over the last two weeks that had been zero), he masturbated a great deal. Masturbation, he believed, was a sign of creativity. Across from the bed was his desk. A big old-fashioned Underwood sat on top of it. Manuscripts were stacked to both sides. More manuscripts, some in boxes, some secured with rubber bands, were piled up in one corner. He wrote a lot and he moved around a lot and his main luggage was his work--mostly poems, a few stories, a surreal play in which the characters spoke a grand total of nine words, and a novel he had attacked badly from six different angles. It had been five years since he had lived in one place long enough to get completely unpacked.

Let's face it, we all got issues. Most of the time we can deal with our own overstuffed luggage, but every once in a while a few marbles bust out of the bag, go rolling down the aisle, and we got no choice but to chase after them. Chasing after our lost marbles is like an out-of-body experience. For a while it's like we become somebody else—someone we don't recognize. It scares us and gives us new and bigger headaches...They got shrinks to analyze why we do weird crap. Sometimes they tell us it's all because of our parents, which makes us happy, because we all want to blame our parents for everything, right?...No one ever seems to take responsibility themselves—because if we don't blame it on our parents, or the devil, or the government, or the freaking position of Venus in relation to Mars, then we're still left with that big ugly 'why?' Most of the time we know for sure what we did, when we did it, and where it happened. Which means we're not playing Boggle anymore; now it's Clue. But does anyone ask why Colonel Mustard killed Professor Plum with the lead pipe in the ballroom? No. When we look at our own lead pipes and ask ourselves why, the answer never really comes, so we find someone or something to blame, because 'I don't know' is not an acceptable answer.

There are countries out there where people speak English. By not like us - we have our own languages hidden in our carry-on luggage, in our cosmetics bags, only ever using English when we travel, and then only in foreign countries, to foreign people. It's hard to imagine, but English is their real language. They don't have anything to fall back on or turn to in moments of doubt. How lost they must feel in the world, where all instructions, all the lyrics of the stupidest possible songs, all the menus, all the excruciating pamphlets and brochures - even the buttons in the lift! - are in their private language. They may be understood by anyone at any moment, whenever they open their mouths. ... Wherever they are, people have unlimited access to them - they are accessible to everyone and everything! (page 182/3)

It’s dark because you are trying too hard. Lightly child, lightly. Learn to do everything lightly. Yes, feel lightly even though you’re feeling deeply. Just lightly let things happen and lightly cope with them. I was so preposterously serious in those days, such a humorless little prig. Lightly, lightly – it’s the best advice ever given me. When it comes to dying even. Nothing ponderous, or portentous, or emphatic. No rhetoric, no tremolos, no self conscious persona putting on its celebrated imitation of Christ or Little Nell. And of course, no theology, no metaphysics. Just the fact of dying and the fact of the clear light. So throw away your baggage and go forward. There are quicksands all about you, sucking at your feet, trying to suck you down into fear and self-pity and despair. That’s why you must walk so lightly. Lightly my darling, on tiptoes and no luggage, not even a sponge bag, completely unencumbered.

Over a three-month period in 1995, Holbrooke alternately cajoled and harangued the parties to the conflict. For one month, he all but imprisoned them at Wright-Patterson Air Force Base in Dayton, Ohio—a stage where he could precisely direct the diplomatic theater. At the negotiations’ opening dinner, he seated Miloševic´ under a B-2 bomber—literally in the shadow of Western might. At a low point in the negotiations, he announced that they were over, and had luggage placed outside the Americans’ doors. Miloševic´ saw the bags and asked Holbrooke to extend the talks. The showmanship worked—the parties, several of them mortal enemies, signed the Dayton Agreement. It was an imperfect document. It ceded almost half of Bosnia to Miloševic´ and the Serbian aggressors, essentially rewarding their atrocities. And some felt leaving Miloševicć in power made the agreement untenable. A few years later, he continued his aggressions in Kosovo and finally provoked NATO airstrikes and his removal from power, to face trial at The Hague. The night before the strikes, Miloševic´ had a final conversation with Holbrooke. “Don’t you have anything more to say to me?” he pleaded. To which Holbrooke replied: “Hasta la vista, baby.” (Being menaced by a tired Schwarzenegger catchphrase was not the greatest indignity Miloševic´ faced that week.) But the agreement succeeded in ending three and a half years of bloody war. In a sense, Holbrooke had been preparing for it since his days witnessing the Paris talks with the Vietnamese fall apart, and he worked hard to avoid repeating the same mistakes. Crucial to the success of the talks was his broad grant of power from Washington, free of micromanagement and insulated from domestic political whims. And with NATO strikes authorized, military force was at the ready to back up his diplomacy—not the other way around. Those were elements he would grasp at, and fail to put in place, in his next and final mission.

Phoebe Kitzke?” The man had stopped in front of her. He had a deep, beautiful voice that made her thigh muscles quiver. This close she could see the multiple shades of deep blue that made up his eyes. He didn’t smile. On the whole she would say he looked about as far from happy as it was possible to be while still breathing. “I’m Phoebe,” she said, afraid she sounded as tentative as she felt. Why hadn’t Maya warned her? Saying Zane was good-looking was like saying summer in the desert was warm. “Zane.” He held out his hand. She wasn’t sure if he wanted to shake or take her luggage. She erred on the side of good manners and found her fingers engulfed in his. The instant heat didn’t surprise her, nor did the melting sensation. Everything else was going wrong in her life--it made sense for her body to betray her, too. She mentally jerked her attention away from her traitorous thighs and noticed that he had a really big hand. Phoebe tried not to think about those old wives’ tales. She tried not to think about anything except the fact that she was going to kill Maya the next time she saw her. “Nice to meet you,” she said when he’d released her. “Maya says the ranch is some distance from the airport, and I really appreciate you coming all this way to collect me.” His only response was to pick up her luggage. He didn’t bother with the wheels, instead carrying the bags out as if they weighed as much as a milk carton. Uh-huh. She’d nearly thrown out her entire back just wrestling them into the car. While in the past she’d never been all that interested in men with muscles, she could suddenly see the appeal of well-developed biceps. Zane headed for the parking lot, and Phoebe trailed after him. He didn’t seem to be much of a talker. That could make the drive to the ranch incredibly long.

door. On the seat was the battered, black suitcase her dad used as hand luggage. Next to it was a carrier bag with the barrel of the biggest Nerf gun Poppy had ever seen poking out of the top. Charlie would be beyond excited. She walked over, picked both bags up and put them by the door. Poppy looked around her again. Her dad’s big suitcase was by the sink. She tried lifting it but it was so heavy she could barely haul it an inch off the ground. He’d have to come and get it later. There was no sign of any other bags but as Poppy turned to go she noticed the interior

It’s dark because you’re trying too hard,” said Susila. “Dark because you want it to be light. Remember what you used to tell me when I was a little girl. ‘Lightly, child, lightly. You’ve got to learn to do everything lightly. Think lightly, act lightly, feel lightly. Yes, feel lightly, even though you’re feeling deeply. Just lightly let things happen and lightly cope with them.’ I was so preposterously serious in those days, such a humorless little prig. Lightly, lightly—it was the best advice ever given me. ​ Well, now I’m going to say the same thing to you, Lakshmi . . . Lightly, my darling, lightly. Even when it comes to dying. Nothing ponderous, or portentous, or emphatic. No rhetoric, no tremolos, no self-conscious persona putting on its celebrated imitation of Christ or Goethe or Little Nell. And, of course, no theology, no metaphysics. Just the fact of dying and the fact of the Clear Light. ​ So throw away all your baggage and go forward. There are quicksands all about you, sucking at your feet, trying to suck you down into fear and self-pity and despair. That’s why you must walk so lightly. Lightly, my darling. On tiptoes; and no luggage, not even a sponge bag. Completely unencumbered.

There are countries out there where people speak English. But not like us - we have our own languages hidden in our carry-on luggage, in our cosmetics bags, only ever using English when we travel, and then only in foreign countries, to foreign people. It's hard to imagine, but English is their real language. They don't have anything to fall back on or turn to in moments of doubt. How lost they must feel in the world, where all instructions, all the lyrics of the stupidest possible songs, all the menus, all the excruciating pamphlets and brochures - even the buttons in the lift! - are in their private language. They may be understood by anyone at any moment, whenever they open their mouths. ... Wherever they are, people have unlimited access to them - they are accessible to everyone and everything! (page 182/3)

The other thing I notice about Warner is that he only has one piece of luggage. One small bag.

will take it round back to the daadi haus.” John grabbed one of the suitcases with his free hand and carried it to the porch. The driver made quick work of the rest of the bags, and they were soon all lined up ready to be moved. The driver bid his farewell, got back in the van, and headed off down the lane. They all herded into the house just as Dat and Thomas came in from the barn. Dat offered his hand to John. “Welcome, John Beiler. We’re pleased to have you with us.” “Thank you, sir,” John answered with a smile. Mamm interjected, “Malachi, will you and Thomas take the teacher’s luggage around back to the daadi haus? Then hurry back in for dinner.” “Will do,” Dat agreed, and off the two of them went. A few minutes later, Mamm had everyone organized at the table, and Dat gave the silent blessing. After the amen was sounded, Susie got busy making silly

He spent two weeks in South Shore Hospital in a state of near oblivion; and when he woke, it was as though he’d taken a trip around the world and lost most of his luggage along the way. Heavy bags they were, packed with thirty years of indignities, rages, brawls and indiscretions.

filet à bagages luggage rack filet de camouflage camouflage net filet à cheveux hairnet filet à crevettes shrimping net filet de la langue frenulum linguae filet mignon filet mignon filet à papillons butterfly net filet de pêche fishing net filet de protection safety net filet à provisions string bag filet de la verge frenulum preputii

Not through London, no,” Susan said. Soldiers moved aside to give us seats together. Susan stowed our bags in the luggage rack and tucked Bovril’s basket beneath the seat. She found a pencil and a piece of paper in her handbag. She drew. “This is England. Here’s where we are. Here’s London. Here’s home.” She added a squiggly line to show the train route to Kent.

Don’t wear all of your luggage Budget airlines keep the fare down by providing the bare minimum. A seat. And that’s it. Anything else, like a bag or a biscuit or a bit of dignity, is going to cost you extra. That’s why the canny travellers wear layer upon layer of clothing and stuff their pockets with phone chargers, shoes, iPads, bottled water, crushed up bags of McDonald’s and other snacks, and then sew their jewels and valuables into the hems of their coats. Okay, maybe I made that last one up, but it’s a fine line between wearing a few extra items to save on luggage costs and looking like you’re escaping a fascist regime.

The bags under her eyes could hold two weeks of luggage. Her nails are bit to nubs.

He almost broke the window of the front door coming in about two minutes later, as if he was running from Gran Via and the Urgell corner. Sweating, soaked, with two bags; a luggage in his hand and a bigger side bag across his chest. As he threw his luggage to the ground and jumped up the stairs, trying to run up to me, he slipped on the dangerous, tiled, and sharp steps, falling and rolling back into the corner in a state of misery. He tried to get up again, but he fell back down to the bottom of the stairs. The side bag's strap slipped off his shoulder and jammed his legs as he jumped up again and tried to run up to me once more. In his desperation, he fell back down to the bottom of the stairs when his foot got caught in the side bag again, until he finally removed it screaming like a jackal and tried again for the fourth time. I was just standing at the top of the stairs, trying to contain my amazement and amusement at the same time, wondering what was wrong with this bizarre, crazy-crazy guy. It was like another Benny Hill episode, or a Mr Bean scene. But he sure did get hurt too. It was amazing. Finally he managed to scramble and run up the stairs, madly yelling at me. The wireless office phone was in my hand and we had just spoken a minute ago or two. He must have been heading towards Gran Via towards the airport, which I highly doubted as he was hiding in Europe; he was probably going to a bus station around Plaza Espanya. I doubt he was taking the train in Spain, trying to hide in Europe. Once he managed to get up and as I stood there in disbelief, almost laughing at him, with my hands in the air as if I didn’t know what was going on, he ripped the office phone from my hand and threw it to the ground, breaking it into many pieces upstairs.

Alix’s home was filled with the types of mothers she often saw in airports and had come to completely despise. Women with full faces of makeup, way too much luggage (Vera Bradley carry-ons and Lilly Pulitzer passport cases), cork wedge sandals, and plastic bags with souvenirs that took up all the room in the overhead compartments.

The bus stop has 7 bags of luggage and I carry them by the back of my bicycle.

They are loud and boisterous, skylarking in the way that so many men in their twenties do – only just making the train, with the plumped-up platform guard blowing his whistle in furious disapproval. After messing about with the automatic door – open, shut, open, shut – which they inevitably find hilarious beyond the facts, they settle into the seats nearest the luggage racks. But then, apparently spotting the two girls from Cornwall, they glance knowingly at each other and head further down the carriage to the seats directly behind them. I smile to myself. See, I’m no killjoy. I was young once. I watch the girls go all quiet and shy, one widening her eyes at her friend – and yes, one of the men is especially striking, like a model or a member of a boy band. And it all reminds me of that very particular feeling in your tummy. You know. So I am not at all surprised or in the least bit disapproving when the men stand up and the good-looking one then leans over the top of the dividing seats, wondering if he might fetch the girls something from the buffet, ‘. . . seeing as I’m going?’ Next there are name swaps and quite a bit of giggling, and the dance begins. Two coffees and four lagers later, the young men have joined the girls – all seated near enough for me to follow the full conversation. I know, I know. I really shouldn’t be listening, but we’ve been over this. I’m bored, remember. They’re loud. So then. The girls repeat what I have already gleaned from their earlier gossiping. This trip to London is their first solo visit to the capital – a gift from their parents to celebrate the end of GCSEs. They are booked into a budget hotel, have tickets for Les Misérables and have never been this excited. ‘You kidding me? You really never been to London on your own before?’ Karl, the boy-band lookalike, is amazed. ‘Can be a tricky place, you know, girls. London. You need to watch yourselves. Taxi not tube when you get out of the theatre. You hear me?’ I am liking Karl now. He is recommending shops and market stalls – also a club where he says they will be safe if they fancy some decent music and dancing after the show. He is writing down the name on a piece of paper for them. Knows the bouncer. ‘Mention my name, OK?’ And then Anna, the taller of the two friends from Cornwall, is wondering about the black bags and I am secretly delighted that she has asked, for I am curious also, smiling in anticipation of the teasing. Boys. So disorganised. What are you like, eh?

Yo mama is so poor… she put a Happy Meal on layaway! Yo mama is so poor… burglars break into her house and leave money! Yo mama is so poor… her TV has two channels: ON and OFF! Yo mama is so poor… her face is on a foodstamp! Yo mama is so poor… when it rains she says, “Shower time!” Yo mama is so poor… thieves rob her house for practice! Yo mama is so poor… she hangs toilet paper out to dry! Yo mama is so poor… she waves around a popsicle stick and calls it air conditioning. Yo mama is so poor… she was in K-Mart with a box of Hefty bags. I said, what are ya doing? She said, “Buying luggage.” Yo mama is so poor… birds throw bread at her! Yo mama is so poor… it took her a year to save a penny! Yo mama is so poor… a tornado hit her house and did a home improvement! Yo mama is so poor… when I ring the doorbell she says, DING! Yo mama is so poor… when her friend came over to use the bathroom she said, “Ok, choose a corner.” Yo mama is so poor… the last time she smelled a hot meal was when a rich man farted! Yo mama is so poor… she can’t even afford a Payday! Yo mama is so poor… she drives a poor-shhh! Yo mama is so poor… I jumped in a puddle and she scolded me for messing up her bath tub! Yo mama is so poor… I stepped in her house and fell into the backyard. Yo mama is so poor… your family ate cereal with a fork to save milk. Yo mama is so poor… she got caught stealing from Dollar General! Yo mama is so poor… the roaches pay the light bill! Yo mama is so poor… she can't afford to pay attention! Yo mama is so poor… I walked in her house and stepped on a cigarette, and your mom said, “Who turned off the lights?” Yo mama is so poor… when I saw her kicking a can down the street, I asked her what she was doing and she said, “Moving.

Yo momma is so tall… she tripped in Denver and hit her head in New York. Yo momma is so tall… she tripped over a rock and hit her head on the moon. Yo momma is so tall… Shaq looks up to her. Yo momma is so tall… she can see her home from anywhere. Yo momma is so tall… she 69’d bigfoot. Yo momma is so tall… she did a cartwheel and kicked the gates of Heaven. Yo momma is so tall… she has to take a bath in the ocean. Yo momma is so tall… she high-fived God. Yo momma is so poor… Yo momma is so poor… your family ate cereal with a fork to save milk. Yo momma is so poor… the roaches pay the light bill! Yo momma is so poor… I walked in her house and stepped on a cigarette, and your mom said, “Who turned off the lights?” Yo momma is so poor… when her friend came over to use the bathroom she said, “Ok, choose a corner.” Yo momma is so poor… I stepped in her house and I was in the backyard. Yo momma is so poor… she waves around a popsicle stick and calls it air conditioning. Yo momma is so poor… she was in K-Mart with a box of Hefty bags. I said, what ya doing'? She said, “Buying luggage.” Yo momma is so poor… when I ring the doorbell she says, DING! Yo momma is so poor… she can't afford to pay attention! Yo momma is so poor… when I saw her kicking a can down the street, I asked her what she was doing, she said, “Moving.” Yo momma is so stupid… Yo momma is so stupid… she can't pass a blood test. Yo momma is so stupid… she ordered a cheeseburger without the cheese. Yo momma is so stupid… that she burned down the house with a CD burner. Yo momma is so stupid… she got locked in a grocery store and starved. Yo momma is so stupid… when they said that it is chilly outside, she went outside with a bowl and a spoon. Yo momma is so stupid… she got lost in a telephone booth. Yo momma is so stupid… she put lipstick on her forehead to make up her mind. Yo momma is so stupid… she got locked in Furniture World and slept on the floor. Yo momma is so stupid… she sits on the floor and watches the couch. Yo momma is so stupid… she stole free bread. Yo momma is so stupid… she sold her car for gas money. Yo momma is so stupid… she worked at a M&M factory and threw out all the W's. Yo momma is so stupid… she tried to commit suicide by jumping out the basement window. Yo momma is so stupid… she stopped at a stop sign and waited for it to turn green. Yo momma is so stupid… when she asked me what kind of jeans am I wearing I said, “Guess”, and she said, “Levis”. Yo momma is so stupid… it took her 2 hours to watch 60 seconds.

Coaches typically have three luggage bays underneath, and the more passengers you have traveling the tighter it will be. You should limit the bags per person to exactly what each person needs and no more. You will have overhead bins in the coach for carry-on bags, but that will also be limited. How many pairs of shoes can ladies bring with them? HA!

Yo mama is so poor… she was in K-Mart with a box of Hefty bags. I said, what are ya doing? She said, “Buying luggage.

We finished breakfast and got our luggage. Susan carried my small overnight bag. I carried her big bag, and her smaller one, and the one that contained her makeup, and one she referred to as the big poofy one, and a large straw hat she had worn to the beach, which didn’t fit into anything. “Why don’t you get a bellman,” Susan said.

Perspex - An In Depth Anaylsis on What Works and What Doesn't The history of the Perspex Sheet is entrancing. The story backtracks to 1843 when the primary acrylic harsh corrosive was made. Nonetheless, it wasn't until 1933 that the German physicist Otto Rohm patented and enlisted the model title plexiglas. This is crucial on the grounds that what is usually considered Plexiglas has gotten to be such a family unit phrase, for example Kleenex, that it might have been ignored that Plexiglas was beforehand a patented title. From that point acrylic glass was utilized for submarine periscopes and firearm turrets for planes. Since that time acrylic glass has changed into a household item. There is a extensive blended bag of employments for Perspex Sheets. A mixture of windows is produced out of them material incorporating flying machine windows, police home windows, and race auto windows. Utilizing Perspex sheets inside race autos will help make them lighter - and speedier than using glass. Advertising and store indicators are frequently produced out of coloured and clear acrylic and truly material materials are created out of acrylic sheets, because the thermoplastic might perspex sydney be folded. Moreover, Perspex Sheet are utilized as specialists mediums and moreover use for surrounding. Perspex sheets can likewise be made into furniture. Perspex Sheets have such a large mixture of employments. One other one of many uses of Perspex is on solar beds and other locations where UV rays are required. Perspex is also availed in UV grade which is mainly a type of Perspex that enables transmission of UV rays. It is largely utilized in locations where UV rays are required to penetrate.If you have an idea of how Perspex appears like, you may need a extremely onerous time making an attempt to image someone carrying a garment made out of it. That is where the coloured Perspex comes into play. It isn't solely used to make garments but additionally sneakers and luggage. There are truly two sorts of plastics.Thermoset that's a plastic which is structured into a perpetual shape,plus thermoplastic that's versatile and may very well be reshaped. Poly methyl methacrylate is a thermoplastic that's clear. PMMA is blandly reputed to be a glass acrylic. Several brand names are Plexiglas, Lucite and Perspex. PMMA is as a neater cost elective to polycarbonate (PC). An alternate revenue which P.M.M.A possess over COMPUTER is the unlucky deficiency of conceivably hurtful bisphenol A sub-units current in polycarbonate.