Monkey Feeling Quotes

I feel a horror for exaggerated love or friendship. It's just too well demonstrated to me that when the moment comes that one asks something, or has need of something, the responce is not worth a biscuit.

It's so quiet this high up, the feeling you get is that you're one of those space monkeys. You do the little job you're trained to do. Pull a lever. Push a button. You don't understand any of it, and then you just die.

Finally, a bit of luck. Rat bastard,' I hissed down at Montmartre. 'Mangy dog of a scurvy goat.' 'That doesn’t even make sense,' Isabeau murmured. 'Feels good though. Try it.' She narrowed her eyes at the top of Montmartre’s perfectly groomed hair. 'Balding donkey’s ass.' 'Nice.' 'Sniveling flea-bitten rabid monkey droppings.' 'Clearly, you’re a natural.

I think the discomfort that some people feel in going to the monkey cages at the zoo is a warning sign.

I swear, sometimes it feels like there's this monkey in my head who runs around turning the dials and changing channels on me. One minute I'm sitting around eating chocolate chip cookies and then all of a sudden I'm thinking about bears.

I could feel the gravitational pull of home, which when I'm home too long becomes the gravitational pull of somewhere else.

Great people will always be mocked by those who feel smaller than them. A lion does not flinch at laughter coming from a hyena. A gorilla does not budge from a banana thrown at it by a monkey. A nightingale does not stop singing its beautiful song at the intrusion of an annoying woodpecker. Whenever you should doubt your self-worth, remember the lotus flower. Even though it plunges to life from beneath the mud, it does not allow the dirt that surrounds it to affect its growth or beauty.

It killed humans, therefore it was a weapon. But radiation killed humans, and a medical X-ray machine wasn’t intended as a weapon. Holden was starting to feel like they were all monkeys playing with a microwave. Push a button, a light comes on inside, so it’s a light. Push a different button and stick your hand inside, it burns you, so it’s a weapon. Learn to open and close the door, it’s a place to hide things. Never grasping what it actually did, and maybe not even having the framework necessary to figure it out. No monkey ever reheated a frozen burrito.

I think Jesus is saying, Look, you guys are running around like monkeys trying to get people to clap, but people are fallen, they are separated from God, so they have no idea what is good or bad, worthy to be judged or set free, beautiful or ugly to begin with. Why not get your glory from God? Why not accept your feelings of redemption because of His pleasure in you, not the fickle and empty favor of man? And only then will you know who you are, and only then will you have true, uninhibited relationships with others.

Explain me to myself, you’ll make me choke on my lunch. Feel sympathy for me, I’ll puke monkey blood on your understated shoes.

The most important thing we've learned, So far as children are concerned, Is never, NEVER, NEVER let Them near your television set -- Or better still, just don't install The idiotic thing at all. In almost every house we've been, We've watched them gaping at the screen. They loll and slop and lounge about, And stare until their eyes pop out. (Last week in someone's place we saw A dozen eyeballs on the floor.) They sit and stare and stare and sit Until they're hypnotised by it, Until they're absolutely drunk With all that shocking ghastly junk. Oh yes, we know it keeps them still, They don't climb out the window sill, They never fight or kick or punch, They leave you free to cook the lunch And wash the dishes in the sink -- But did you ever stop to think, To wonder just exactly what This does to your beloved tot? IT ROTS THE SENSE IN THE HEAD! IT KILLS IMAGINATION DEAD! IT CLOGS AND CLUTTERS UP THE MIND! IT MAKES A CHILD SO DULL AND BLIND HE CAN NO LONGER UNDERSTAND A FANTASY, A FAIRYLAND! HIS BRAIN BECOMES AS SOFT AS CHEESE! HIS POWERS OF THINKING RUST AND FREEZE! HE CANNOT THINK -- HE ONLY SEES! 'All right!' you'll cry. 'All right!' you'll say, 'But if we take the set away, What shall we do to entertain Our darling children? Please explain!' We'll answer this by asking you, 'What used the darling ones to do? 'How used they keep themselves contented Before this monster was invented?' Have you forgotten? Don't you know? We'll say it very loud and slow: THEY ... USED ... TO ... READ! They'd READ and READ, AND READ and READ, and then proceed To READ some more. Great Scott! Gadzooks! One half their lives was reading books! The nursery shelves held books galore! Books cluttered up the nursery floor! And in the bedroom, by the bed, More books were waiting to be read! Such wondrous, fine, fantastic tales Of dragons, gypsies, queens, and whales And treasure isles, and distant shores Where smugglers rowed with muffled oars, And pirates wearing purple pants, And sailing ships and elephants, And cannibals crouching 'round the pot, Stirring away at something hot. (It smells so good, what can it be? Good gracious, it's Penelope.) The younger ones had Beatrix Potter With Mr. Tod, the dirty rotter, And Squirrel Nutkin, Pigling Bland, And Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle and- Just How The Camel Got His Hump, And How the Monkey Lost His Rump, And Mr. Toad, and bless my soul, There's Mr. Rat and Mr. Mole- Oh, books, what books they used to know, Those children living long ago! So please, oh please, we beg, we pray, Go throw your TV set away, And in its place you can install A lovely bookshelf on the wall. Then fill the shelves with lots of books, Ignoring all the dirty looks, The screams and yells, the bites and kicks, And children hitting you with sticks- Fear not, because we promise you That, in about a week or two Of having nothing else to do, They'll now begin to feel the need Of having something to read. And once they start -- oh boy, oh boy! You watch the slowly growing joy That fills their hearts. They'll grow so keen They'll wonder what they'd ever seen In that ridiculous machine, That nauseating, foul, unclean, Repulsive television screen! And later, each and every kid Will love you more for what you did.

I love it here in Boston and I love studying medicine. But it’s not home. Dublin is home. Being back with you felt like home. I miss my best friend. I’ve met some great guys here, but I didn’t grow up with any of them playing cops and robbers in my back garden. I don’t feel like they are real friends. I haven’t kicked them in the shins, stayed up all night on Santa watch with them, hung from trees pretending to be monkeys, played hotel, or laughed my heart out as their stomachs were pumped. It’s kind of hard to beat that.

Depends on if this is an ass chewing session or a rational discussion. I've had enough shit flung at me today that I'm feeling like a monkey.

Guilt at least has a purpose; it tells us we’ve violated some ethical code. Ditto for remorse. Those feelings are educational; they manufacture wisdom. But regret—regret is useless.

I want to love somebody because I want to be loved. In a rabbit-fear I may hurl myself under the wheels of the car because the lights terrify me, and under the dark blind death of the wheels I will be safe. I am very tired, very banal, very confused. I do not know who I am tonight. I wanted to walk until I dropped and not complete the inevitable circle of coming home. I have lived in boxes above, below, and down the hall from girls who think hard, feel similarly, and long companionably, and I have not bothered to cultivate them because I did not want to, could not, sacrifice the time. People know who I am, and the harder I try to know who they are, the more I forget their names - I want to be alone, and yet there are times when the liquid eye and the cognizant grin of a small monkey would send me into a crying fit of brotherly love. I work and think alone. I live with people, and act. I love and cherish both. If I knew now what I wanted I would know when I saw it, who he was.

When a monkey loses a banana to a rival, he feels bad, but he doesn't expand the problem by thinking about it over and over. He looks for another banana. He ends up feeling rewarded rather than harmed. Humans use their extra neurons to construct theories about bananas and end up constructing pain.

You can’t make people go to your funeral,” Abby said. “They only go if they feel like it.” “They’ll feel like it.” Charlie pulled on a multicolored sock. “I’m gonna be buried in the sandbox next to the monkey bars. They’ll have to go because it’ll be during recess.

I can't believe it's actually happening. This is independent adulthood, this is what it feels like. Shouldn't there be some sort of ritual? In certain remote African tribes there'd be some incredible four day rites of passage ceremony involving tattooing and potent hallucinogenic drugs extracted from tree-frogs, and village elders smearing my body with monkey blood, but here,rites of passage is all about three new pairs of pants and stuffing your duvet in a bin-liner.

The phrase 'I just turn on my monkey and it makes me feel good' sounds very dirty, but I can't explain why. It's great to try to use expressions like that on the comics page. People want to complain but they can't, because they can't figure out quite what they should be complaining about.

They say that animals are incapable of feelings and reasoning. This is false. No living thing on earth is void of either. They also say that man is the most intelligent — and the most superior — species on earth. This is also false. It is very arrogant to assume that we are the most intelligent species when we keep repeating the same mistakes over and over again. It has been shown that both rats and monkeys learn from making errors, yet we have not. Our history proves this. All creatures on earth have the capacity to love and grieve the same way we do. No life on the planet is more deserving than another. Those who think so, are the true savages.

I mean to say, we all sprang from humble origins. Goodness gracious, who would have thought that a species of monkey would take over the kingdom of the world. … I cannot help but feel that the monkey was not a good choice. Surely one of the cat family would have been much more satisfactory. They have a much less emotional approach to life. ("The Shadmock")

No one know precisely how sentient is a pinyon pine, for example, or to what degree such woody organisms can feel pain or fear, and in any case the road builders had more important things to worry about, but this much is clearly established as scientific face: a living tree, once uprooted, takes many days to wholly die.

Holden was starting to feel like they were all monkeys playing with a microwave. Push a button, a light comes on inside, so it’s a light. Push a different button and stick your hand inside, it burns you, so it’s a weapon. Learn to open and close the door, it’s a place to hide things. Never grasping what it actually did, and maybe not even having the framework necessary to figure it out. No monkey ever reheated a frozen burrito. So here the monkeys were, poking the shiny box and making guesses about what it did.

REMEMBER THE LOTUS FLOWER Great people will always be mocked by those Who feel smaller than them. A lion does not flinch at laughter coming from a hyena. A gorilla does not budge from a banana thrown at it by a monkey. A nightingale does not stop singing its beautiful song At the intrusion of an annoying woodpecker. Whenever you should doubt your self-worth, remember the lotus flower. Even though it plunges to life from beneath the mud, It does not allow the dirt that surrounds it To affect its growth or beauty. Be that lotus flower always. Do not allow any negativity or ugliness In your surroundings Destroy your confidence, Affect your growth, Or make you question your self-worth. It is very normal for one ugly weed to not want to stand alone. Remember this always. If you were ugly, Or just as small as they feel they are, Then they would not feel so bitter and envious Each and every time they are forced To glance up at magnificently Divine YOU.

To draw for a moment from an entirely different corner of my life, that part of me still attached to the biological sciences, there is ample evidence that animals — rats and monkeys, for example — that are forced into a subordinate status within their social systems adapt their brain chemistry accordingly, becoming 'depressed' in humanlike ways. Their behavior is anxious and withdrawn; the level of serotonin (the neurotransmitter boosted by some antidepressants) declines in their brains. And — what is especially relevant here — they avoid fighting even in self-defense ... My guess is that the indignities imposed on so many low-wage workers — the drug tests, the constant surveillance, being 'reamed out' by managers — are part of what keeps wages low. If you're made to feel unworthy enough, you may come to think that what you're paid is what you are actually worth.

When I yell at the dads drinking coffee and looking at their phones at the playground while their seven-year-olds play on the preschool monkey bars, I feel like I am fully alive.

Amy turned to Nellie. "Can you create a diversion to draw the clerk outside?" The au pair was wary. "What kind of diversion?" "You could pretend to be lost," Dan proposed. "The guy comes out to give you directions, and we slip inside." "That's the most sexist idea I've ever heard," Nellie said harshly. "I'm female, so I have to be clueless. He's male, so he's got a great sense of direction." "Maybe you're from out of town," Dan suggested. "Wait–you are from out of town." Nellie stashed their bags under a bench and set Saladin on the seat with a stern "You're the watchcat. Anybody touches those bags, unleash your inner tiger." The Egyptian Mau surveyed the street uncertainly. "Mrrp." Nellie sighed. "Lucky for us there's no one around. Okay, I'm going in there. Be ready." The clerk said something to her–probably May I help you? She smiled apologetically. "I don't speak Italian." "Ah–you are American." His accent was heavy, but he seemed eager to please. "I will assist you." He took in her black nail polish and nose ring. "Punk, perhaps, is your enjoyment?" "More like a punk/reggae fusion," Nellie replied thoughtfully. "With a country feel. And operatic vocals." The clerk stared in perplexity. Nellie began to tour the aisles, pulling out CDs left and right. "Ah–Artic Monkeys–that's what I'm talking about. And some Bad Brains–from the eighties. Foo Fighters–I'll need a couple from those guys. And don't forget Linkin Park..." He watched in awe as she stacked up an enormous armload of music. "There," she finished, slapping Frank Zappa's Greatest Hits on top of the pile. "That should do for a start." "You are a music lover," said the wide-eyed cashier. "No, I'm a kleptomaniac." And she dashed out the door.

—There are many truths and there are many worlds, said the sign solemnly. —Yes, I said, feeling quite humbled. And you were right. I did dream, many dreams, and they were much more than dreams, as if originating from the dawn of the mind. Yes, I absolutely dreamed.

You don’t see things like that. You feel them, as in all important things; they arrive, they come into your dreams.

I wish I could convey the perfection of a seal slipping into water or a spider monkey swinging from point to point or a lion merely turning it's head. But language founders in such seas. Better to picture it in your head if you want to feel it.

Like most humanoids, I am burdened with what the Buddhists call the "monkey mind"--the thoughts that swing from limb to limb, stopping only to scratch themselves, spit and howl. From the distant past to the unknowable future, my mind swings wildly through time, touching on dozens of ideas a minute, unharnessed and undisciplined. This in itself is not necessarily a problem; the problem is the emotional attachment that goes along with the thinking. Happy thoughts make me happy, but-whoop!-how quickly I swing again into obsessive worry, blowing the mood; and then it's all over again; and then my mind decides it might be a good time to start feeling sorry for itself, and loneliness follows promptly. You are, after all, what you think. Your emotions are the slaves to your thoughts, and you are the slave to your emotions.

How do they do it? thought Iris. How did they get so good at performing their lives? She didn’t feel human, or like a gorilla. She felt like a mad, stupid monkey wearing human skin, barely passing.

THE SOUNDTRACK OF WES AND LIZ Someone Like You | Van Morrison Paper Rings | Taylor Swift Lovers | Anna of the North ocean eyes | Billie Eilish Bad Liar | Selena Gomez Public Service Announcement (Interlude) | Jay-Z Up All Night | Mac Miller How Would You Feel (Paean) | Ed Sheeran Hello Operator | The White Stripes Paradise | Bazzi Sabotage | Beastie Boys Feelin’ Alright | Joe Cocker Someone Like You | Adele Monkey Wrench | Foo Fighters Bella Luna | Jason Mraz Forrest Gump | Frank Ocean Electric (feat. Khalid) | Alina Baraz Kiss | Tom Jones Enter Sandman | Metallica Death with Dignity | Sufjan Stevens We Are Young | fun. feat. Janelle Monáe New Year’s Day | Taylor Swift River | Joni Mitchell

Animals are complete all on their own, living by voices we don’t get to hear, having a knowing far beyond our paltry ken. And giraffes, they seem to know something more. Elephants, tigers, monkeys, zebras . . . whatever you feel around the rest, you feel different around giraffes.

Holden was starting to feel like they were all monkeys playing with a microwave. Push a button, a light comes on inside, so it’s a light. Push a different button and stick your hand inside, it burns you, so it’s a weapon. Learn to open and close the door, it’s a place to hide things. Never grasping what it actually did, and maybe not even having the framework necessary to figure it out. No monkey ever reheated a frozen burrito.

I wish I could convey the perfection of a seal slipping into water or a spider monkey swinging from point to point or a lion merely turning its head. But language founders in such seas. Better to picture it in your head if you want to feel it...I spent more hours than I can count a quiet witness to the highly mannered, manifold expressions of life that grace our planet. It is something so bright, loud, weird and delicate as to stupefy the senses.

Great people will always be mocked by those who feel smaller than them. Yet a lion does not flinch at laughter coming from a hyena. A gorilla does not budge from a banana thrown at it by a monkey. A nightingale does not stop singing its beautiful song at the intrusion of an annoying woodpecker. Whenever you should question your self-worth, always remember the lotus flower. Even though it plunges to life from beneath the mud, it does not allow the dirt that surrounds it to affect its growth or beauty. Do not allow any negativity or ugliness in your surroundings destroy your confidence or affect your growth. Always be confident and courageous with your truths and the directions set out by your heart. It is very normal for one ugly weed to not want to stand alone.

I wish I could convey the perfection of a seal slipping into water or a spider monkey swinging from point to point or a lion merely turning its head. But language founders in such seas. Better to picture it in your head if you want to feel it.

Truth: last week I online shopped too much. Then I ate 2 pounds of jelly beans to feel better about that. In fact, while I was trying to read soul-nourishing things all I could think about was shopping and jellybeans. Points to the monkey mind.

The feelings I had for my sister were jumbled together, like the monkeys in a barrel game we'd had as children. All the brightly colored monkeys with their curved arms tangled and entwined, so convoluted that it was almost impossible to separate them.

REMEMBER THE LOTUS FLOWER Great people will always be mocked by those Who feel smaller than them. A lion does not flinch at laughter coming from a hyena. A gorilla does not budge from a banana thrown at it by a monkey. A nightingale does not stop singing its beautiful song At the intrusion of an annoying woodpecker. Whenever you should doubt your self-worth, remember the lotus flower. Even though it plunges to life from beneath the mud, It does not allow the dirt that surrounds it To affect its growth or beauty. Be that lotus flower always. Do not allow any negativity or ugliness In your surroundings, Destroy your confidence, Affect your growth, Or make you question your self-worth. It is very normal for one ugly weed To not want to stand alone. Remember this always. If you were ugly, Or just as small as they feel they are, Then they would not feel so bitter and envious Each and every time they are forced To glance up at magnificently Divine YOU. REMEMBER THE LOTUS FLOWER by Suzy Kassem

She stared up at him, at this man-she-knew-who-was-a-stranger, this person who’d risked everything in his world to kidnap another human so he could thrust away like a zoo monkey whenever he wanted. This loser had made a biological act so imperative that he was willing to go to prison to feel the same relief he could get with his own hand.

It is odd that we have so little relationship with nature, with the insects and the leaping frog and the owl that hoots among the hills calling for its mate. We never seem to have a feeling for all living things on the earth. If we could establish a deep abiding relationship with nature we would never kill an animal for our appetite, we would never harm, vivisect, a monkey, a dog, a guinea pig for our benefit. We would find other ways to heal our wounds, heal our bodies. But the healing of the mind is something totally different. That healing gradually takes place if you are with nature, with that orange on the tree, and the blade of grass that pushes through the cement, and the hills covered, hidden, by the clouds.

Indeed I now think that the Indian and Chinese description of the afterlife, the system of the six lokas or realms of reality – the devas, asuras, humans, beasts, pretas, and inhabitants of hell – is in fact a metaphorical but precise description of this world and the inequalities that exist in it, with the devas sitting in luxury and judgment on the rest, the asuras fighting to keep the devas in their high position, the humans getting by as humans do, the beasts laboring as beasts do, the homeless preta suffering in fear at the edge of bell, and the inhabitants of hell enslaved to pure immiseration. My feeling is that until the number of whole lives is greater than the number of shattered lives, we remain stuck in some kind of prehistory, unworthy of humanity's great spirit. History as a story worth telling will only begin when the whole lives outnumber the wasted ones. That means we have many generation s to go before history begins. All the inequalities must end; all the surplus wealth must be equitably distributed. Until then we are still only some kind of gibbering monkey, and humanity, as we usually like to think of it, does not yet exist. To put it in religious terms, we are still indeed in the bardo, waiting to be born.

The rather uncomfortable feeling most of us have when we're around snakes is evidence of how this ancient experience continues to influence us today. Throughout the long prehistory of our species and those that preceded it, snakes were a mortal threat. And so we learned our lesson. Others didn't, but that had a nasty habit of dying. So natural selection did its work and the rule--beware of snakes--was ultimately hardwired into every human brain. It's universal. Go anywhere on the planet, examine any culture. People are wary of snakes. Even if--as in the Arctic--there are no snakes. Our primate cousins shared our long experience and they feel the same way: Even monkeys raised in laboratories who have never seen a snake will back away at the sight of one.

I've never been to the ocean, never heard the waves lick the sand in that quiet shushing you read about in books. I've never been to the zoo, smelled the elephant piss, and heard the cries of the monkeys. I've never had frozen yogurt from one of those places where you pull on the handle and fill your own cup with whatever you like. I've never eaten dinner at a restaurant with napkins that you set on your lap and silverware that isn't plastic. I've never painted my nails like the other girls at school, in bright neons and decadent reds. I've never been more than ten miles from home. Ten miles. It's like I live in the forever ago, not where buses rumble and trains have racks. I've never had a birthday cake, though I've wanted one very much. I've never owned a bra that is new, and had to cut the tags off with the scissors from the kitchen drawer. I've never been loved in a way that makes me feel as if I was supposed to be born, if only to feel loved. I've never, I've never, I've never. And it's my own fault. The things that we never do because someone makes us fearful of them, or makes us believe we don't deserve them. I want to do all my nevers-- alone or with someone who matters. I don't care. I just want to live.

To eat liver, knowing that you, too, have a liver, brushes up against the cannibalism taboo. The closer we are to a species, emotionally or phylogenetically, the more potent our horror at the prospect of tucking in, the more butchery feels like murder. Pets and primates, wrote Mead, come under the category “unthinkable to eat.” The same cultures that eat monkey meat have traditionally drawn the line at apes.

Great people will always be mocked by those who feel smaller than them. However, a lion does not flinch at laughter coming from a hyena. A gorilla does not budge from a banana thrown at it by a monkey. A nightingale does not stop singing its beautiful song at the intrusion of an annoying woodpecker.

Every time I glanced at Ren, I saw that he was watching me. When we finally reached the end of the tunnel and saw the stone steps that led to the surface, Ren stopped. “Kelsey, I have one final request of you before we head up.” “And what would that be? Want to talk about tiger senses or monkey bites in strange places maybe?” “No. I want you to kiss me.” I sputtered, “What? Kiss you? What for? Don’t you think you got to kiss me enough on this trip?” “Humor me, Kells. This is the end of the line for me. We’re leaving the place where I get to be a man all the time, and I have only my tiger’s life to look forward to. So, yes, I want you to kiss me one more time.” I hesitated. “Well, if this works, you can go around kissing all the girls you want to. So why bother with me right now?” He ran a hand through his hair in frustration. “Because! I don’t want to run around kissing all the other girls! I want to kiss you!” “Fine! If it will shut you up!” I leaned over and pecked him on the cheek. “There!” “No. Not good enough. On the lips, my prema.” I leaned over and pecked him on the lips. “There. Can we go now?” I marched up the first two steps, and he slipped his hand under my elbow and spun me around, twisting me so that I fell forward into his arms. He caught me tightly around the waist. His smirk suddenly turned into a sober expression. “A kiss. A real one. One that I’ll remember.” I was about to say something brilliantly sarcastic, probably about him not having permission, when he captured my mouth with his. I was determined to remain stiff and unaffected, but he was extremely patient. He nibbled on the corners of my mouth and pressed soft, slow kisses against my unyielding lips. It was so hard not to respond to him. I made a valiant struggle, but sometimes the body betrays the mind. He slowly, methodically swept aside my resistance. And, feeling he was winning, he pressed ahead and began seducing me even more skillfully. He held me tightly against his body and ran a hand up to my neck where he began to massage it gently, teasing my flesh with his fingertips. I felt the little love plant inside me stretch, swell, and unfurl its leaves, like he was pouring Love Potion # 9 over the thing. I gave up at that point and decided what the heck. I could always use a rototiller on it. And I rationalized that when he breaks my heart, at least I will have been thoroughly kissed. If nothing else, I’ll have a really good memory to look back on in my multi-cat spinsterhood. Or multi-dog. I think I will have had my fill of cats. I groaned softly. Yep. Dogs for sure.

The average person wastes his life. He has a great deal of energy but he wastes it. The life of an average person seems at the end utterly meaningless…without significance. When he looks back…what has he done? MIND The mind creates routine for its own safety and convenience. Tradition becomes our security. But when the mind is secure it is in decay. We all want to be famous people…and the moment we want to be something…we are no longer free. Intelligence is the capacity to perceive the essential…the what is. It is only when the mind is free from the old that it meets everything new…and in that there’s joy. To awaken this capacity in oneself and in others is real education. SOCIETY It is no measure of health to be well adjusted to a profoundly sick society. Nature is busy creating absolutely unique individuals…whereas culture has invented a single mold to which we must conform. A consistent thinker is a thoughtless person because he conforms to a pattern. He repeats phrases and thinks in a groove. What happens to your heart and your mind when you are merely imitative, naturally they wither, do they not? The great enemy of mankind is superstition and belief which is the same thing. When you separate yourself by belief tradition by nationally it breeds violence. Despots are only the spokesmen for the attitude of domination and craving for power which is in the heart of almost everyone. Until the source is cleared there will be confusion and classes…hate and wars. A man who is seeking to understand violence does not belong to any country to any religion to any political party. He is concerned with the understanding of mankind. FEAR You have religion. Yet the constant assertion of belief is an indication of fear. You can only be afraid of what you think you know. One is never afraid of the unknown…one is afraid of the known coming to an end. A man who is not afraid is not aggressive. A man who has no sense of fear of any kind is really a free and peaceful mind. You want to be loved because you do not love…but the moment you really love, it is finished. You are no longer inquiring whether someone loves you or not. MEDITATION The ability to observe without evaluating is the highest form of intelligence. In meditation you will discover the whisperings of your own prejudices…your own noises…the monkey mind. You have to be your own teacher…truth is a pathless land. The beauty of meditation is that you never know where you are…where you are going…what the end is. Down deep we all understand that it is truth that liberates…not your effort to be free. The idea of ourselves…our real selves…is your escape from the fact of what you really are. Here we are talking of something entirely different….not of self improvement…but the cessation of self. ADVICE Take a break with the past and see what happens. Release attachment to outcomes…inside you will feel good no matter what. Eventually you will find that you don’t mind what happens. That is the essence of inner freedom…it is timeless spiritual truth. If you can really understand the problem the answer will come out of it. The answer is not separate from the problem. Suffer and understand…for all of that is part of life. Understanding and detachment…this is the secret. DEATH There is hope in people…not in societies not in systems but only in you and me. The man who lives without conflict…who lives with beauty and love…is not frightened by death…because to love is to die.

During the Year of the Monkey, the press, which had hitherto generally supported the war or stuck to feel-good stories of heroism and mateship, vigorously changed its tune. The media reacted to growing middle-class disenchantment with the war: they did not initiate or promote anti-war feeling; they reflected and fed off it.

Be merciful. If it is a mess, let it be a mess. If it feels like you can't do this today, stay put and explore that feeling. Let your mindfulness co-opt everything in your experience. Unless you are in significant emotional or physical pain, stay put with no-matter-whatness. Keep realiging with the intentions of your practice: kindness, diligence, presence, attention, relaxation. Be a work in progress while holding this blueprint. The feeling of its being difficult is actually the sensation of your life evolving. Embrace it.

And attention, men! Don’t despair! There is plenty of stuff in here for you too. Since I have spent the majority of my life in rooms filled with men I feel like I know you well. I love you. I love the shit out of you. I think this book will speak to men in a bunch of different ways. I should also point out that there is a secret code in each chapter and if you figure it out it unlocks the next level and you get better weapons to fight the zombie quarterbacks on the Pegasus Bridge. So get cracking, you task-oriented monkey brains.

Like any other monkey on your back, no addiction ever feels complete until you can pass it on to your friends.

I have a feeling" she said, "he's up to some monkey business." "What kind of monkey business Mom?" I asked. "You know," she said. "The main monkey business.

Who would you rather live with, a bunch of bonobos feeling good? Or chimpanzees eating each other's babies? Or humans waterboarding each other and destroying the planet?

Feelings fucking suck monkey balls.

Most of the people I've encountered are looking not for a religion to answer all their questions but for a community of faith in which they can feel safe asking them.

I could feel the insidious fingers of memory rustling through the underbrush like the dismembered hand of the pianist scrabbling toward Peter Lorre's throat in The Beast with Five Fingers.

As I observed more than once at Facebook, and as I imagine is the case in all organizations from business to government, high-level decisions that affected thousands of people and billions in revenue would be made on gut feel, the residue of whatever historical politics were in play, and the ability to cater persuasive messages to people either busy, impatient, or uninterested (or all three).

Oh, and those like buttons on Facebook? You know why you feel that little thrill when they boost your score? You just experience peer approval and class validation. And that makes us all happy monkeys.

You come here 'cause of me?" "I come here 'cause you said the word freedom. Sheesh!" He was mad. "My wife and children's still in bondage. How I'm gonna plan on earning money to buy them if he's monkeying 'round, fighting the Missourians?" "You didn't ask him?" "There weren't no asking, Bob said. "My marse and I was rolling to town. I heard a noise. Next thing I know, he stepped out the woods holding a rifle in marse's face. He said, 'I'm tak ing your wagon and freeing your colored man. He didn't ask me if I wanted to be free. Course I come along 'cause I had to. But I thought he was gonna free me to the north. Nobody said nothing about fighting nobody." That was the thing. The Old Man done the same to me. He reckoned every colored wanted to fight for his freedom. It never occurred to him that they would feel any other way.

I’m an old man trying to give a young daughter advice, and it’s like a monkey trying to teach table manners to a bear. A drunk driver took my son’s life seventeen years ago and my wife has never been the same since. I’ve always seen the question of abortion in terms of Fred. I seem to be helpless to see it any other way, just as helpless as you were to stop your giggles when they came on you at that poetry reading, Frannie. Your mother would argue against it for all the standard reasons. Morality, she’d say. A morality that goes back two thousand years. The right to life. All our Western morality is based on that idea. I’ve read the philosophers. I range up and down them like a housewife with a dividend check in the Sears and Roebuck store. Your mother sticks with the Reader’s Digest, but it’s me that ends up arguing from feeling and her from the codes of morality. I just see Fred. He was destroyed inside. There was no chance for him. These right-to-life biddies hold up their pictures of babies drowned in salt, and arms and legs scraped out onto a steel table, so what? The end of a life is never pretty. I just see Fred, lying in that bed for seven days, everything that was ruined pasted over with bandages. Life is cheap, abortion makes it cheaper. I read more than she does, but she is the one who ends up making more sense on this one. What we do and what we think… those things are so often based on arbitrary judgments when they are right. I can’t get over that. It’s like a block in my throat, how all true logic seems to proceed from irrationality. From faith. I’m not making much sense, am I?

If you now ask me if there is any difference between the human sense of fairness and that of chimpanzees, I really don’t know anymore. There are probably a few differences left, but by and large both species actively seek to equalize outcomes. The great step up compared with the first-order fairness of monkeys, dogs, crows, parrots, and a few other species is that we hominids are better at predicting the future. Humans and apes realize that keeping everything for themselves will create bad feelings. So second-order fairness can be explained from a purely utilitarian perspective. We are fair not because we love each other or are so nice but because we need to keep cooperation flowing. It’s our way of retaining everyone on the team.

But imagine if we were the only people left. The last men on earth. I’d be the best golfer in the world right now. You’d be the only priest. And Ghost would be the only Sikh. Imagine that. A four-hundred-year religion terminating in a dope-head grease monkey.” “I thought you liked the bloke.” “I do. But think about it. All the people that made you feel worthless and small down the years. The bullies and bosses. All gone. It’s exhilarating, if you think about it. Freedom from other people’s expectations. We can finally start living for ourselves.

We will need to stay over two nights in a hotel on our trip home.” Momentarily alarmed, I glanced at Ren. “Okay. Umm, I was thinking that maybe this time if you don’t mind, we could check out one of those bigger hotels. You know, something that has more people around. With elevators and rooms that lock. Or even better, a nice high-rise hotel in a big city. Far, far, far away from the jungle?” Mr. Kadam chuckled. “I’ll see what I can do.” I graced Mr. Kadam with a beatific smile. “Good! Could we please go now? I can’t wait to take a shower.” I opened the door to the passenger side then turned and hissed in a whisper aimed at Ren, “In my nice, upper-floor, inaccessible-to-tigers hotel room.” He just looked at me with his innocent, blue-eyed tiger face again. I smiled wickedly at him and hopped in the Jeep, slamming the door behind me. My tiger just calmly trotted over to the back where Mr. Kadam was loading the last of his supplies and leapt up into the back seat. He leaned in the front, and before I could push him away, he gave me a big, wet, slobbery tiger kiss right on my face. I sputtered, “Ren! That is so disgusting!” I used my T-shirt to swipe the tiger saliva from my nose and cheek and turned to yell at him some more. He was already lying down in the back seat with his mouth hanging open, as if he were laughing. Before I could really lay into him, Mr. Kadam, who was the happiest I’d ever seen him, got into the Jeep, and we started the bumpy journey back to a civilized road. Mr. Kadam wanted to ask me questions. I knew he was itching for information, but I was still fuming at Ren, so I lied. I asked him if he could hold off for a while so I could sleep. I yawned big for dramatic effect, and he immediately agreed to let me have some peace, which made me feel guilty. I really liked Mr. Kadam, and I hated lying to people. I excused my actions by mentally blaming Ren for this uncharacteristic behavior. Convincing myself that it was his fault was easy. I turned to the side and closed my eyes. I slept for a while, and when I woke up, Mr. Kadam handed me a soda, a sandwich, and a banana. I raised my eyebrow at the banana and thought of several good monkey jokes I could annoy Ren with, but I kept quiet for Mr. Kadam’s sake.

I opened myself up to the kiss and kissed him back with enthusiasm. Putting all my secret emotions and tender feelings into the embrace, I wound my arms around his neck and slid my hands into his hair. Pulling his body that much closer to mine, I embraced him with all the warmth and affection that I wouldn’t allow myself to express verbally. He paused, shocked for a brief instant, and then quickly adjusted his approach, escalating into a passionate frenzy. I shocked myself by matching his energy. I ran my hands up his powerful arms and shoulders and then down his chest. My senses were in turmoil. I felt wild. Eager. I clutched at his shirt. I couldn’t get close enough to him. He even smelled delicious. You’d think that several days of being chased by strange creatures and hiking through a mysterious kingdom would make him smell bad. In fact, I wanted him to smell bad. I’m sure I did. I mean, how can you expect a girl to be fresh as a daisy while traipsing through the jungle and getting chased by monkeys. It’s just not possible. I desperately wanted him to have some fault. Some weakness. Some…imperfection. But Ren smelled amazing-like waterfalls, a warm summer day, and sandalwood trees all wrapped up in a sizzling, hot guy. How could a girl defend herself from a perfect onslaught delivered by a pefect person? I gave up and let Mr. Wonderful take control of my senses. My blood burned, my heart thundered, my need for him quickened, and I lost all track of time in his arms. All I was aware of was Ren. His lips. His body. His soul. I wanted all of him. Eventually, he put his hands on my shoulders and gently separated us. I was surprised that he had the strength of will to stop because I was nowhere near being able to. I blinked my eyes open in a daze. We were both breathing hard. “That was…enlightening,” he breathed. “Thank you, Kelsey.” I blinked. The passion that had dulled my mind dissipated in an instant, and my mind sharply focused on a new feeling. Irritation. “Thank you? Thank you! Of all the-“ I slammed up the steps angrily and then spun around to look down at him. “No! Thank you, Ren!” My hands slashed at the air. “Now you got what you wanted, so leave me alone!” I ran up the stairs quickly to put some distance between us. Enlightening? What was that about? Was he testing me? Giving me a one-to-ten score on my kissing ability? Of all the nerve? I was glad that I was mad. I could shove all the other emotions into the back of my mind and just focus on the anger, the indignation. He leapt up the stairs two at a time. “That’s not all I want, Kelsey. That’s for sure.” “Well, I no longer care about what you want!” He shot me a knowing look and raised an eyebrow. Then, he lifted his foot out of the opening, placed it on the dirt, and instantly changed back into a tiger. I laughed mockingly. “Ha!” I tripped over a stone but quickly found my footing. “Serves you right!” I shouted angrily and stumbled blindly along the dim path. After figuring out where to go, I marched off in a huff. “Come on, Fanindra. Let’s go find Mr. Kadam.

Get Up! Go out! Do something! But what - what was worth doing? What had any meaning in it? She saw herself doing - extravagant things; nursing sick women; tending pale babies; making a speech in Parliament; riding a steeplechase; hoeing turnips in knickerbockers - decorative. And she lay perfectly still, bound by the filaments of her self-vision. So long as she saw herself she would do nothing - she knew it - for nothing would be worth doing! And it seemed to her, lying there so still, that not to see herself would be worse than anything. And she felt that to feel this was to acknowledge herself caged for ever.

Monkeys" "You can buy cooler, more humdrum pets-- a monkey deprived of his mother in the cradle feels the want of her affection so keenly he either pines away or masters you by literally hanging on your neck-- no ounce of your patience or courage is misplaced; the worst is his air of boredom and neglect, manifested in tail-chewing and fur plucking. The whole species is vulnerable to killing colds, likes straw, hay or bits of a torn blanket, a floortray thinly covered with sawdust, they need trapezes, shelves, old rubber tires-- any string or beam will do to set them swinging-- these charming youngsters tend to sour with age

At first the flow of thoughts rushes like a waterfall, which sometimes discourages beginners, who feel their mind is out of control. Actually, the sense of a torrent of thoughts seems to be due to paying close attention to our natural state, which Asian cultures dub “monkey mind,” for its wildly frenetic randomness.

My feeling is that until the number of whole lives is greater than the number of shattered lives, we remain stuck in some kind of prehistory, unworthy of humanity’s great spirit. History as a story worth telling will only begin when the whole lives outnumber the wasted ones. That means we have many generations to go before history begins. All the inequalities must end; all the surplus wealth must be equitably distributed. Until then we are still only some kind of gibbering monkey, and humanity, as we usually like to think of it, does not yet exist. To put it in religious terms, we are still indeed in the bardo, waiting to be born.

To recognize the nature of nihilism, we see feces and death as the "dark side" of the mouth, and through that recognize life beyond the human perspective. Humans fear things that disturb them personally, and then assign to those things a universal status, like a monkey trying to convince a tribe that his enemy is its enemy. Escaping this is the essence of nihilism, or a reduction of all value except the inherent and holistic. "Disgusting" is not important; the function of the world and the human body is. Function, measures in real-world changes and results, is more important than sensations or moral judgements,feelings and emotions.

I had bad feelings about an election in the year of the monkey. Don't worry, everyone said, the majority rules. No so, I retaliated, the silent rule and it will be decided by them, those who do not vote. And who can blame them, when it's all a pack of lies, a tainted election lined in waste? A true darkening of days. All of the resources that could be used to scrape away lead from the walls of crumbling schools, to shelter the homeless, or to clean a foul river. Instead, one candidate desperately shovels money down a pit, and the other builds empty edifices in his own name, another kind of immoral waste. Nonetheless, despite the misgivings, I voted.

We spend our days—and for some of us, nights—reviewing the past for errors and looking into the future to prevent making more. We debate decisions we’ve already made, recycle old concerns, indulge endless regrets, obsess over things we can’t control. It’s all in response to a constant stream of negative feelings and monkey chatter.

I have a feeling that if Darwin turns out to be right, the Christian faith won’t fall apart after all. Faith is more resilient than that. Like a living organism, it has a remarkable ability to adapt to change. At our best, Christians embrace this quality, leaving enough space within orthodoxy for God to surprise us every now and then. At our worst, we kick and scream our way through each and every change, burning books and bridges and even people along the way. But if we can adjust to Galileo’s universe, we can adjust to Darwin’s biology — even the part about the monkeys. If there’s one thing I know for sure, it’s that faith can survive just about anything, so long as it’s able to evolve.

You don’t do it for money; you do it because it saves you from feeling bad. A man or woman able to turn his or her back on something like that is just a monkey, that’s all. The story paid me by letting me get back to sleep when I felt as if I couldn’t. I paid the story back by getting it concrete, which it wanted to be. The rest is just side effects.

I’m getting the feeling you don’t want me to go. Are you ashamed of me? That hurts, Titty-bottum—I’m wounded.” She laughs disdainfully. “No you’re not. And it has nothing to do with me not wanting you to go—you can’t go. There are about thirty Austenites. As soon as they spot you, word will get out that you were in Castlebrook.” “Oh the horror, because Castlebrook is the hub of the social scene and media elites.” That was sarcasm, in case you weren’t sure. Sarah is, which is why her eyes rolls behind her glasses. “It only takes one set of loose lips for the Queen to find out you were there when you’re supposed to be here. And the producers don’t want you going anywhere, anyway.” “I could ditch?” She blows a puff of breath up at her dark bangs, which have fallen too close to her eyes. And now I’m thinking about Sarah blowing things. “And then you’ll have to wear the monkey.” “I fear no man or monkey. But it is sort of creepy, isn’t it?” I groan. “Fucking James.” Sarah mocks me. “Right, fucking James is trying to keep you safe and alive and not kidnapped, like it’s his job or something. Bastard.” Huh, look at that. Sarah can do sarcasm too. That’s sexy. And she said the word fucking—which makes me think about fucking her—on the bed, the sofa . . . Christ, in the nook. She would be absolutely wild in the nook. Talk about a fantasy—that one’s going straight to the top of the wank bank.

I am for that thing in your genome that demands it. I am for that thing which keeps you animals alive. I am, at most, a slice of monkey suspended within the stuff of universal intelligence. You are a monkey in nice clothes. In the harsh environment you refer to as a habitable planet, group behaviors are required to survive long enough to procreate. Since you are stupid monkeys, you have no natural affinity for group altruism. And so you have evolved a genetic pump that delivers pleasant chemicals to your monkey brains. One that is triggered by awe and fear of an anthropomorphism of your environment. Earth mothers. Sky gods. Bits of bush that catch fire. Interesting-looking rocks. An oddly-shaped branch. You’re not fussy. When your brain does this idiot work, you stop in front of that bump or stick and consider it fiercely. Other monkeys will, like as not, stop next to you and emulate you. Your genetic pump delivers morphine for your souls. You have your fellow monkeys join in. Perhaps so they can feel it too. Perhaps because you feel it might please the stick god to have more monkeys gaze at it in narcotic awe. The group must be defended. Because as many monkeys as possible must please the stick god, and you can continue to get your fix off praying to it. You draw up rules to organize and protect the group. Two hundred thousand years later, you put Adolf Hitler into power. Because you are, after all, just monkeys. I am your stash.

—You see, there's a saying carved in Old English on a wooden plank on one of the oldest structures built in America. This is Tangier Island. As it goes, so do we. —Have you actually seen it? I asked. —You don't see things like that. You feel them, as in all important things; they arrive, they come into your dreams. For instance, he added slyly, you're dreaming now.

Mistress mine, your unique and special quality is this: When I'm around you, I'm happy." "Richard!" "Quit blubbering. Can't stand a female who has to lick tears off her upper lip." "Brute. I'll cry if I goddam well feel like it... and I need this one. Richard, I love you." "I'm fond of you, too, monkey face. What I was saying was that, if your present pack of lies is wearing thin, don't bother to build up another structure filled with solemn assurances that this is at last the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Forget it. The old structure may be threadbare -- but I don't care. I'm not looking for holes or inconsistencies because I don't care. I just want to live with you and hold your hand and hear you snore.

We can control and direct our thoughts, but it often feels like our thoughts have minds of their own, controlling us and how we feel. Thinking is necessary for solving problems, analyzing, making decisions, and planning, but in between the times of proactive mental endeavors, the mind roams like a wild monkey, dragging you through the brambles of rumination and negativity.

Look, you guys are running around like monkeys trying to get people to clap, but people are fallen, they are separated from God, so they have no idea what is good or bad, worthy to be judged or set free, beautiful or ugly to begin with. Why not get your glory from God? Why not accept your feelings of redemption because of His pleasure in you, not the fickle and empty favor of man? And only then will you know who you are

Alone had always felt like an actual place to me, as if it weren't a state of being, but rather a room where I could retreat to be who I really was. The radical aloneness of the PCT had altered that sense. Alone wasn't a room anymore, but the whole wide world, and now I was alone in that world, occupying it in a way I had never before. Living at large like this, without even a roof over my head, made the world feel both bigger and smaller to me. Until now, I hadn't truly understood the world's vastness--hadn't even understood how vast a mile could be--until each mile was beheld at walking speed. And yet there was also its opposite, the strange intimacy I'd come to have with the trail, the way the piñon pines and monkey flowers I passed that morning, the shallow streams I crossed, felt familiar and known, though I'd never passed them or crossed them before.

You're a cat," she said automatically. "Your powers of perception are astounding," the cat drawled. "Although I feel obliged to point out, in the interests of ontological exactitude, that I am in fact only half cat. Personally, though, I have always considered it the better half." "And you can talk," Alice said, working her way through the situation. "Better and better! With brains like that, I can see how you monkeys took over the world.

My job is never boring," Staples said. "There's nuts-and-bolts stuff like getting the tarpaulin over the shaft when it rains, and so in. Cataloging and reshelving. The shelves are in a shocking state. And when you've got everything ever written or lost to keep track of, it's quite a job. And there's fetching books. "I used to really look forward to requests for books way down in the abyss. We'd all rope up, follow our lines down for miles. The order falls apart a way down but you learn to sniff out class-marks. Sometimes we'd be gone for weeks, fetching volumes.' She spoke with a faraway voice. "There are risks. Hunters, animals, and accidents. Ropes that snap. Sometimes someone gets separated. Twenty years ago, I was in a group looking for a book someone had requested. I remember, it was called 'Oh, All Right Then': Bartleby Returns. We were led by Ptolemy Yes. He was the man taught me. Best librarian there's ever been, some say. "Anyway, after weeks of searching, we ran out of food and had to turn back. No one likes it when we fail, so none of us were feeling great. "We felt that much worse when we realized that we'd lost Ptolemy. "Some people say he went off deliberately. That he couldn't bear not to find the book. That he's out there still in the Wordhoard Abyss, living off shelf-monkeys, looking. And that he'll be back one day, book in his hand.

Language had arrived from outer space and mated together lizards and monkeys or whatever until it had customized a host which could sustain it. That first person had been introduced to the complicated DNA sequence of proper nouns and compound verbs. Outside of language he didn't exist. There was no method to escape. To feel anything, anymore, required ever-increasing amounts of words. Great landfills and airlifts of words. It took a mountain of talk to achieve even the tiniest insight.

Beer. There’s nothing I don’t like about it. I love the smell, the taste—even the sound of it. The cool thunk of the cap coming off the bottle, the silvery crack of the pop-top can. You need to sip a whiskey. And I was never a sipper. I was a guzzler. I loved the feeling of it: to open wide the mouth of the soul and pour a cold one down my throat, with my mind racing ever-forward toward the next. Beer was kind and faithful, like an old friend. Every drinker has their poison. I am a beer man.

Deep one night he was trimming his nose that would never walk again into sunlight atop living legs, busily feeling every hair with a Rotex rotary nostril clipper as if to make his nostrils as bare as a monkey’s, when suddenly a man, perhaps escaped from the mental ward in the same hospital or perhaps a lunatic who happened to be passing, with a body abnormally small and meagre for a man save only for a face as round as a Dharma’s and covered in hair, sat down on the edge of his bed and shouted, foaming,

FOUR BODIES WELLNESS Four bodies wellness means paying attention to our health on four levels: physical, mental, emotional, and spiritual. For me, a sense of overall well-being kicked in fully only after I began to address all “four bodies” of my health—when I began to prioritize daily physical exercise as a way to wake up my chi (life force) and connect my body to my spirit, meditation to befriend my monkey mind, and got on board with the idea that “toxins” could be thoughts, feelings, and situations as much as substances. For example, the gut issues I

Her father showed her the Himalayan yeti, the Loch Ness Monster, the Patagonian giant sloth. There was the Irish elk with antles as big as wings. The South African quagga, which started as a zebra until it ran out of stripes and became a horse. The great auk, the lion-tailed monkey, the Queensland tiger. So many incredible extra creatures in the world, and nobody had found a single one of them. "Do you think they're real?" she said. Her father nodded. "I have begun to feel comforted," he said, "by the thought of all we do not know, which is nearly everything.

What in the world is going on, what is going on? I mean what does it mean to be incarnate in a human body, in a squirrely culture like this, trying to make sense of your heritage, your opportunities the contents of the culture, the contents of your own mind? Is it possible to have an overarching viewpoint that is not somehow canned or cultish or self-limited in its approach, in other words, is it possible to cultivate an open mind and sanity in the kind of society and psychological environment that we all share? And it grows daily and weekly, as you know, harder to do this, weirder to integrate more on your plate, to assimilate and I certainly don’t have final or even merely final answers. I think it all lies in posing the questions in a certain way, in feeling the data in a certain way. And one of the things I try to convince people is it’s not necessary to achieve closure with this stuff. And in fact any ideological or belief system that offers closure, meaning final answers, is sure to be wrong, sure to be self-limiting, sure to be inadequate to the facts. So one of the ideas I’d like to put out is the idea that ideology is not our friend, it is not a matter of choosing from the smartest board of ideologies and rejecting the flawed, the self-contradictory and this over simple, in favor of the un-flawed, the complex enough. Where is it written in adamantine that semi-carnivorous monkeys can or should be capable of understanding reality? That seems to be one of the first delusions, and one of the more prideful illusions of human culture, that a final understanding is possible in the first place. Better, I think, to try and frame questions which can endure, and leave off searching for answers, because answers are like operating systems, they’re being upgraded faster than you can keep up with it.

Every Saturday I would go to the library and choose my books for the week. One late-autumn morning, despite menacing clouds, I bundled up and walked as always, past the peach orchards, the pig farm and the skating rink to the fork in the road that led to our sole library. The sight of so many books never failed to excite me, rows and rows of books with multicolored spines. I’d spent an inordinate amount of time choosing my stack of books that day, with the sky growing more ominous. At first, I wasn’t worried as I had long legs and was a pretty fast walker, but then it became apparent that there was no way I was going to beat the impending storm. It grew colder, the winds picked up, followed by heavy rains, then pelting hail. I slid the books under my coat to protect them, I had a long way to go; I stepped in puddles and could feel the icy water permeate my ankle socks. When I finally reached home my mother shook her head with sympathetic exasperation, prepared a hot bath and made me go to bed. I came down with bronchitis and missed several days of school. But it had been worth it, for I had my books, among them The Tik-Tok Man of Oz, Half Magic and The Dog of Flanders. Wonderful books that I read over and over, only accessible to me through our library.

CHANGGAN MEMORIES When first my hair began to cover my forehead, I picked and played with flowers before the gate. You came riding on a bamboo horse, And circled the walkway, playing with green plums. We lived together, here in Changgan county, Two children, without the least suspicion. When I was fourteen, I became your wife, So shy that still my face remained unopened. I bowed my head towards the shadowed wall, And called one thousand times, I turned not once. At 15 I began to lift my brows, And wished to be with you as dust with ashes. You always kept your massive pillar faith, I had no need to climb the lookout hill. When I was sixteen, you went far away, To Yanyudui, within the Qutang gorge. You should not risk the dangerous floods of May, Now from the sky, the monkeys cry in mourning. Before the gate, my pacing's left a mark, Little by little, the green moss has grown. The moss is now too deep to sweep away, And leaves fall in the autumn's early winds. This August, all the butterflies are yellow, A pair fly over the western garden's grass. I feel that they are damaging my heart, Through worrying, my rosy face grows old. When you come down the river from Sanba, Beforehand, send a letter to your home. We'll go to meet each other, however far, I'll come up to Changfengsha.

When we pull back into the castle courtyard, James is waiting. And he does not look happy. Actually he looks like a blond Hulk . . . right before he goes smash. Sarah sees it too. “He’s miffed.” “Yep.” We get out of the car and she turns so fast there’s a breeze. “I should go find Penny. ’Bye.” I call after her. “Chicken!” She just waves her hand over her shoulder. Slowly, I approach him. Like an explorer, deep in the jungles of the Amazon, making first contact with a tribe that has never seen the outside world. And I hold out my peace offering. It’s a Mega Pounder with cheese. “I got you a burger.” James snatches it from my hand angrily. But . . . he doesn’t throw it away. He turns to one of the men behind him. “Mick, bring it here.” Mick—a big, truck-size bloke—brings him a brown paper bag. And James’s cold blue eyes turn back to me. “After speaking with your former security team, I had an audience with Her Majesty the Queen last year when you were named heir. Given your history of slipping your detail, I asked her permission to ensure your safety by any means necessary, including this.” He reaches into the bag and pulls out a children’s leash—the type you see on ankle-biters at amusement parks, with a deranged-looking monkey sticking its head out of a backpack, his mouth wide and gaping, like he’s about to eat whoever’s wearing it. And James smiles. “Queen Lenora said yes.” I suspected Granny didn’t like me anymore; now I’m certain of it. “If I have to,” James warns, “I’ll connect this to you and the other end to old Mick here.” Mick doesn’t look any happier about the fucking prospect than I am. “I don’t want to do that, but . . .” He shrugs, no further explanation needed. “So the next time you feel like ditching? Remember the monkey, Your Grace.” He puts the revolting thing back in its bag. And I wonder if fire would kill it. “Are we good, Prince Henry?” James asks. I respect a man willing to go balls-to-the-wall for his job. I don’t like the monkey . . . but I respect it. I flash him the okay sign with my fingers. “Golden.

There’s also an experiment in which two monkeys were able to obtain a coveted food item by pulling together on a rope, neither one being able to accomplish this task solo. But the food was then available to only one of them. If this one refused to share, the second monkey would in future retaliate by refusing to pull on the rope. He preferred to punish the selfish monkey rather than take a chance at getting some food himself. You know the feeling. Everyone knows it. Could it be that the revenge module is very ancient and thus deeply embedded in us? Some cultures encourage its expression more than others do, but it seems to be omnipresent. Simply telling people they ought not to feel vengeful because it isn’t nice will not usually work.

I lay back with a groan and close my eyes. I am just getting comfortable when two sharp elbows land in my midsection. Hayley crawls on top of me on the couch. I think she must be part monkey. She holds a kid-sized board book in her hand. “Wead,” she says, shoving it in my face. I sit up, tucking her into my lap. I take the book from her and open it, but the words jumble. I turn it upside down. “Once upon a time,” I begin. “Dat’s not how it goes,” she complains. She’s a smart girl. “I know,” I explain. “But books are magical, and if you turn them upside down, there’s a whole new story in the pages.” “Weally?” she asks, her eyes big with wonder. No, not really. But it’s the best I can do, kid. “Really,” I affirm. She wiggles, settling more comfortably in my arms. I start to make up a story based on the upside-down pictures. She listens intently. “Once upon a time, there was a little frog. And his name was Randolf.” “Randolf,” she repeats with a giggle. “And Randolf had one big problem.” “Uh oh,” she breathes. “What kind a problem?” “Randolf wanted to be a prince. But his mommy told him that he couldn’t be a prince since he was just a frog.” I keep reading until I say, “The end.” She lays the book to the side and snuggles into me. I kiss the top of her head because it feels like the right thing to do. And she smells good. “Your story was better than the book’s story,” she says. My heart swells with pride. “Thank you.” If only it was this easy to please the adults of the world.

Bernard sank into a yet more hopeless misery. "But why is it prohibited?" asked the Savage. In the excitement of meeting a man who had read Shakespeare he had momentarily forgotten everything else. The Controller shrugged his shoulders. "Because it's old; that's the chief reason. We haven't any use for old things here." "Even when they're beautiful?" "Particularly when they're beautiful. Beauty's attractive, and we don't want people to be attracted by old things. We want them to like the new ones." "But the new ones are so stupid and horrible. Those plays, where there's nothing but helicopters flying about and you feel the people kissing." He made a grimace. "Goats and monkeys!" Only in Othello's word could he find an adequate vehicle for his contempt and hatred.

You’re a grown-up, these days. You don’t wear a kamikaze pilot’s rising sun headband and a tee-shirt that screams DEBUG THIS! and you don’t spend your weekends competing in extreme programming slams at a windy campsite near Frankfurt, but it’s generally difficult for you to use any machine that doesn’t have at least one compiler installed: In fact, you had to stick Python on your phone before you even opened its address book because not being able to brainwash it left you feeling handicapped, like you were a passenger instead of a pilot. In another age you would have been a railway mechanic or a grease monkey crawling over the spark plugs of a DC-3. This is what you are, and the sad fact is, they can put the code monkey in a suit but they can’t take the code out of the monkey.

I start referring to sums of money as a pony, a bottle, a carpet or a monkey, quite unselfconsciously. Probably sounds ridiculous in my posh voice. One time, in the £50 game at the Vic, I try to bet a cockle and (once the word has crashed against the accent barrier and slumped unconscious on the baize) it goes as a call. Stupid really, since I’m the only one who actually pronounces the ‘ck’ in the middle. But this is the language, it feels normal to use it. I can’t sound any funnier than Bambos does when he bets ‘sirillo’. Three, or three hundred, or three thousand = a carpet, because people used to get a carpet in their cell if they were jailed for three years or more. And there used to be a carpet manufacturer called Cyril Lord. So when Bambos, in his heavy Cypriot accent, bets ‘a sirillo’, everyone knows exactly what he means.

What could be more subtle, for instance, than the instinct which had prompted her to hang on the walls of her drawing-room three paintings, all by Douanier Rousseau? Her guests, on coming into this room, were put at ease by the presence of pictures, and ‘modern’ pictures at that, which they could recognize at first sight. Faced by the work of Seurat, of Matisse, even of Renoir, who knows but that they might hesitate, the name of the artist not rising immediately to their lips? But at the sight of those fantastic foliages, those mouthing monkeys, there could arise no doubt; even the most uncultured could murmur: ‘What gorgeous Rousseaus you have here. I always think it is so wonderful that they were painted by a common customs official – abroad, of course.’ And buoyed up by a feeling of intellectual adequacy, they would thereafter really enjoy themselves.

Alone had always felt like an actual place to me, as if it weren’t a state of being, but rather a room where I could retreat to be who I really was. The radical aloneness of the PCT had altered that sense. Alone wasn’t a room anymore, but the whole wide world, and now I was alone in that world, occupying it in a way I never had before. Living at large like this, without even a roof over my head, made the world feel both bigger and smaller to me. Until now, I hadn’t truly understood the world’s vastness—hadn’t even understood how vast a mile could be—until each mile was beheld at walking speed. And yet there was also its opposite, the strange intimacy I’d come to have with the trail, the way the piñon pines and monkey flowers I passed that morning, the shallow streams I crossed, felt familiar and known, though I’d never passed them or crossed them before.

But why is it prohibited?" asked the Savage. In the excitement of meeting a man who had read Shakespeare he had momentarily forgotten everything else. The Controller shrugged his shoulders. "Because it's old; that's the chief reason. We haven't any use for old things here." "Even when they're beautiful?" "Particularly when they're beautiful. Beauty's attractive, and we don't want people to be attracted by old things. We want them to like the new ones." "But the new ones are so stupid and horrible. Those plays, where there's nothing but helicopters flying about and you feel the people kissing." He made a grimace. "Goats and monkeys!" Only in Othello's word could he find an adequate vehicle for his contempt and hatred. "Nice tame animals, anyhow," the Controller murmured parenthetically. "Why don't you let them see Othello instead?" "I've told you; it's old. Besides, they couldn't understand it.

In the time of chimpanzees, I was a monkey Butane in my veins and I'm out to cut the junkie With the plastic eyeballs, spray paint the vegetables Dog food stalls with the beefcake pantyhose Kill the headlights and put it in neutral Stock car flamin' with a loser in the cruise control Baby's in Reno with the Vitamin D Got a couple of couches, sleep on the love seat Someone came in sayin' I'm insane to complain About a shotgun wedding and a stain on my shirt Don't believe everything that you breathe You get a parking violation and a maggot on your sleeve So shave your face with some mace in the dark Savin' all your food stamps and burnin' down the trailer park Yo, cut it Soy un perdedor I'm a loser, baby, so why don't you kill me? (Double barrel buckshot) Soy un perdedor I'm a loser baby, so why don't you kill me? Forces of evil on a bozo nightmare Ban all the music with a phony gas chamber 'Cause one's got a weasel and the other's got a flag One's on the pole, shove the other in a bag With the rerun shows and the cocaine nose-job The daytime crap of the folksinger slob He hung himself with a guitar string A slab of turkey neck and it's hangin' from a pigeon wing You can't write if you can't relate Trade the cash for the beef, for the body, for the hate And my time is a piece of wax fallin' on a termite That's chokin' on the splinters Soy un perdedor I'm a loser baby, so why don't you kill me? (Get crazy with the cheese whiz) Soy un perdedor I'm a loser baby, so why don't you kill me? (Drive-by body pierce) Yo, bring it on down I'm a driver, I'm a winner Things are gonna change, I can feel it Soy un perdedor I'm a loser baby, so why don't you kill me? (I can't believe you) Soy un perdedor I'm a loser baby, so why don't you kill me? Soy un perdedor I'm a loser baby, so why don't you kill me? (Sprechen sie Deutsche, baby) Soy un perdedor I'm a loser, baby, so why don't you kill me? (Know what I'm sayin'?)

55. Unholy Scam The Divine made You as a holy expression of Love exactly as You are. But many get told they need to become worthy of love from other humans, and even from God. However, trees, grass, seashells, kittens, dragon lizards, spider monkeys, Pomeranians, chipmunks, and just about anyone and anything besides deluded, brainwashed humans do NOT feel this way. Sense a scam? Here’s the Truth. You already are Love. And You already are Worthy. This is a central tenet of existence, independent of age, race, gender, charisma, height, weight, bank account, sexual orientation, and genital size. Over time, the Divine can reveal this, if it is sincerely offered. Why the heck not? Change me Divine Beloved into One who knows without question my own beauty, worthiness, and desirability. Let me remember constantly who I am, a spark of Divinity, of Love, in a temporary human form. Awaken me from any traces of amnesia; may I always recall my true nature as radiant Light.

Litter after litter was set down; lords and ladies were lifted out like precious jewels, and handed their lap dogs, their fans, or their parasols. Each seemed to have brought some toy or other; one young man had a monkey with its fur dyed blue. And yet, if you will believe it, out of all those men, the King’s daily companions fed at his board with his meat and wine, not one carried a sword. They all met and greeted, kissing cheeks or touching hands, talking together in the high clear voice of the Palace people. Their Greek was quite pure, but for the Cretan accent which sounds so mincing to a mainland ear. They have more words than we, for they talk continually of what they think and feel. But mostly one could understand them. The women called each other by such baby-names as we would use to children; and the men called them “darling” whether they were married to them or not; a thing which from their behavior nobody could guess. I saw one woman alone kissed by three men.

Suddenly, he's aware of something pushing onto his lap. The stupid monkey. "Give him a cuddle," Valentine says. He's slid his thumb to the corner of his mouth so he can talk, but it still sounds slurry from the way he's holding it, so it won't fall out. "He'll stop you being all grumpy and stressed. He smells nice." "It smells like its rotting," Lindsay says. He picks the thing up and sits it on the steering wheel so he can get a better look at it, trying not to touch its saliva-drenched foot. "No he don't. He smells like being sleepy, and hiding under your covers when everybody's pissed off and shouting. He smells like what it feels like being all warm and safe under your covers." Lindsay brings the thing to his face to give it an experimental sort of sniff. "Wrong. It smells like your spit." And his shampoo, and sort of musty, and something indefinable but unmistakable that makes him think of the way Valentine looks first think in the morning, when his hair's sticking up every which way and he's frowning slightly on opening his eyes like he can't remember where he is. He reaches over to tuck the monkey back between the kid's knees.

It doesn't take ten years of study, you don't need to go to the University, to find out that this is a damned good world gone wrong. Gone wrong, because it is being monkeyed with by people too greedy and mean and wrong-hearted altogether to do the right thing by our common world. They've grabbed it and they won't let go. They might lose their importance; they might lose their pull. Everywhere it's the same. Beware of the men you make your masters. Beware of the men you trust. We've only got to be clear-headed to sing the same song and play the same game all over the world, we common men. We don't want Power monkeyed with, we don't want Work and Goods monkeyed with, and, above all, we don't want Money monkeyed with. That's the elements of politics everywhere. When these things go wrong, we go wrong. That's how people begin to feel it and see it in America. That's how we feel it here -- when we look into our minds. That's what common people feel everywhere. That's what our brother whites -- "poor whites" they call them -- in those towns in South Carolina are fighting for now. Fighting our battle. Why aren't we with them? We speak the same language; we share the same blood. Who has been keeping us apart from them for a hundred and fifty-odd years? Ruling classes. Politicians. Dear old flag and all that stuff! Our school-books never tell us a word about the American common man; and his school-books never tell him a word about us. They flutter flags between us to keep us apart. Split us up for a century and a half because of some fuss about taxing tea. And what are our wonderful Labour and Socialist and Communist leaders doing to change that? What are they doing to unite us English-speaking common men together and give us our plain desire? Are they doing anything more for us than the land barons and the factory barons and the money barons? Not a bit of it! These labour leaders of to-day mean to be lords to-morrow. They are just a fresh set of dishonest trustees. Look at these twenty-odd platforms here! Mark their needless contradictions! Their marvellous differences on minor issues. 'Manoeuvres!' 'Intrigue.' 'Personalities.' 'Monkeying.' 'Don't trust him, trust me!' All of them at it. Mark how we common men are distracted, how we are set hunting first after one red herring and then after another, for the want of simple, honest interpretation...

After a week or so, Puzzle and Jake have clearly got it. Door now means 'the-closest-exit-outside-no-matter-where-we-are." Door also means "and-make-sure-the-human-gets-there-too." I feel a little bad about the Poms, the tragic little overlooked, underestimated Poms, and now that Jake and Puz seem assured about the command, I decide to invite any Pomeranian that wants in on the action to have a go. We'll have a little fun. "Door," I say in my bedroom, armed with a pocketful of treats. Jake and Puzzle race to the back door and sit, and I follow them readily, but the Poms at first follow me, because I have the treats. I start with them the way I started with Jake and Puzzle. Door means a treat when you get there, not before. A couple of them (Jack and Smokey) figure it out quickly and are happy to run to the door and sit for a treat. On of them (Mr. Sprits'l) would rather scold me from ankle level all the way there. One of them (Mizzen) is a natural. She races to the door and back to me again, there and back to me again, there and back. Hoor! she says, tap-dancing across the wood. She can get to the door and seems to know what the word means, but it's all so exciting she can hardly contain herself. Hoor! Here's the door! Aren't you here yet? Hoor! Let me come back to you! Hey! Look! Over here! Hoor! Here's the door! She is thrilled with Door. She is thrilled with the knowing. She is thrilled with the treats. Mizzen-monkey makes me a little dizzy.

It could be that God has not absconded but spread, as our vision and understanding of the universe have spread, to a fabric of spirit and sense so grand and subtle, so powerful in a new way, that we can only feel blindly of its hem. In making the thick darkness a swaddling band for the sea, God ‘set bars and doors’ and said, ‘hitherto shalt thou come, but no further.’ But have we come even that far? Have we rowed out to the thick darkness, or are we all playing pinochle in the bottom of the boat? Cruelty is a mystery, and the waste of pain. But if we describe a world to compass these things, a world that is a long, brute game, then we bump up against another mystery: the inrush of power and light, the canary that sings on the skull. Unless all ages and races of men have been deluded by the same mass hypnotist, there seems to be such a thing as beauty, a grace wholly gratuitous. If these tremendous events are random combinations of matter run amok, the yield of millions of monkeys at millions of typewriters, then what is it in us, hammered out of those same typewriters, that they ignite? Our life is a faint tracing on the surface of mystery, like the idle, curved tunnels of leaf miners on the face of a leaf. We must somehow take a wider view, look at the whole landscape, really see it, and describe what’s going on here. Then we can at least wail the right question into the swaddling band of darkness, or, if it comes to that, choir the proper praise.

When you first begin this procedure, expect to face some difficulties. Your mind will wander off constantly, darting around like a bumblebee and zooming off on wild tangents. Try not to worry. The monkey-mind phenomenon is well known. It is something that every seasoned meditator has had to deal with. They have pushed through it one way or another, and so can you. When it happens, just note the fact that you have been thinking, daydreaming, worrying, or whatever. Gently, but firmly, without getting upset or judging yourself for straying, simply return to the simple physical sensation of the breath. Then do it again the next time, and again, and again, and again. Somewhere in this process, you will come face to face with the sudden and shocking realization that you are completely crazy. Your mind is a shrieking, gibbering madhouse on wheels barreling pell-mell down the hill, utterly out of control and helpless. No problem. You are not crazier than you were yesterday. It has always been this way, and you just never noticed. You are also no crazier than everybody else around you. The only real difference is that you have confronted the situation; they have not. So they still feel relatively comfortable. That does not mean that they are better off. Ignorance may be bliss, but it does not lead to liberation. So don’t let this realization unsettle you. It is a milestone actually, a sign of real progress. The very fact that you have looked at the problem straight in the eye means that you are on your way up and out of it.

stomach—which is where the stupid baby is. “I don’t think I’m going to like this dumb baby,” I said. Mother stopped hugging me. “Don’t say that, Junie B. Of course you will,” she said. “Of course I won’t,” I talked back. “Because it won’t even let me hug you very good. And anyway, I don’t even know its stupid dumb name.” Then Mother sat down in the new rocking chair. And she tried to put me on her lap. Only I wouldn’t fit. So she just holded my hand. “That’s because Daddy and I haven’t picked a name for the baby yet,” she explained. “We want a name that’s a little bit different. You know, something cute like Junie B. Jones. A name that people will remember.” And so I thought and thought very hard. And then I clapped my hands together real loud. “Hey! I know one!” I said very excited. “It’s the cafeteria lady at my school. And her name is Mrs. Gutzman!” Mother frowned a little bit. And so maybe she didn’t hear me, I think. “MRS. GUTZMAN!” I hollered. “That’s a cute name, don’t you think? And I remembered it, too! Even after I only heard it one time, Mrs. Gutzman sticked right in my head!” Mother took a big breath. “Yes, honey. But I’m not sure that Mrs. Gutzman is a good name for a tiny baby.” And so then I scrunched my face up. And I thought and thought all over again. “How ’bout Teeny?” I said. “Teeny would be good.” Mother smiled. “Well, Teeny might be cute while the baby was little. But what would we call him when he grows up?” “Big Teeny!” I called out very happy. Then Mother said, “We’ll see.” Which means no Big Teeny. After that, I didn’t feel so happy anymore. “When’s this dumb bunny baby getting here

What used the darling ones to do? ‘How used they keep themselves contented Before this monster was invented?’ Have you forgotten? Don’t you know? We’ll say it very loud and slow: They . . . used . . . to . . . read! They’d read and read, And read and read, and then proceed To read some more. Great Scott! Gadzooks! One half their lives was reading books! The nursery shelves held books galore! Books cluttered up the nursery floor! And in the bedroom, by the bed, More books were waiting to be read! Such wondrous, fine, fantastic tales Of dragons, gypsies, queens, and whales And treasure isles, and distant shores Where smugglers rowed with muffled oars, And pirates wearing purple pants, And sailing ships and elephants, And cannibals crouching ’round the pot, Stirring away at something hot. (It smells so good, what can it be! Good gracious, it’s Penelope.) The younger ones had Beatrix Potter With Mr. Tod, the dirty rotter, And Squirrel Nutkin, Pigling Bland, And Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle and— Just How The Camel Got His Hump, And How The Monkey Lost His Rump, And Mr. Toad, and bless my soul, There’s Mr. Rat and Mr. Mole— Oh, books, what books they used to know, Those children living long ago! So please, oh please, we beg, we pray, Go throw your TV set away, And in its place you can install A lovely bookshelf on the wall. Then fill the shelves with lots of books, Ignoring all the dirty looks, The screams and yells, the bites and kicks, And children hitting you with sticks— Fear not, because we promise you That, in about a week or two Of having nothing else to do, They’ll now begin to feel the need Of having something good to read. And once they start—oh boy, oh boy! You watch the slowly growing joy

When Dennis McKenna drank ayahuasca , he had a vision in which he became “a sentient water molecule, percolating randomly through the soil, lost amid the tangle of the enormous root fibers of the Banisteriopsis World Tree.” I could feel the coolness, the dank dampness of the soil surrounding me. I felt suspended in an enormous underground cistern, a single drop among billions of drops … as if squeezed by the implacable force of irresistible osmotic pressures, I was rapidly translocated into the roots of the Banisteriopsis tree …” He was “carried through the articulating veins toward some unknown destination”. McKenna found himself within the extraordinary cellular mechanisms that turn light into “the molecular stuff of life”. Pulled on a kind of conveyor belt to the place where photosynthesis occurs. His consciousness exploded as he was “smited by the bolt of energy emitted by the phytic acid transducers and my poor water-molecule soul was split asunder”. As this vision ended, he found himself “embedded in the matrix” of the plant’s biochemical makeup. Suddenly he was suspended above the Amazon rainforest, looking over its vast expanse: “The vista stretching to the curved horizon was blue and green and bluish green, the vegetation below, threaded with shining rivers, looked like green mold covering an overgrown petri plate.” McKenna felt: “anger and rage toward my own rapacious, destructive species, scarcely aware of its own devastating power, a species that cares little about the swath of destruction it leaves in its wake as it thoughtlessly decimates ecosystems and burns thousands of acres of rainforest.” He wept. Suddenly a voice spoke to him: “You monkeys only think you’re running things. You don’t think we would really allow this to happen, do you?

Just as women do not have the ritual of dominance-based violence, they also lack the built-in safety. In other words, if you are dealing with a female threat, she will be seeking to do damage, not to show who is boss. In my experience, women gouge for eyes, bite, and try to cut the face with their fingernails far more often than men. Second, if you are a woman dealing with a male threat, he can still Monkey Dance at you and perceive you to be challenging him. A significant percentage of the males who prey on women are seeking to safely establish dominance over somebody. In that case, when a woman fights back the man will react very violently. In his mind, a victim specially chosen to be weak enough to guarantee his validation as a dominator has seen him as weak enough to challenge. A man fighting another man for dominance will try to beat him, but a man who thinks that he is fighting a woman for dominance will be seeking to punish her. Punishment is much worse. Third, there are specific reactions to violence that most women have absorbed at a very young age that profoundly affect their ability to defend themselves. You see this in victims who flirt with or compliment their attacker: “You’re so handsome you don’t need to rape.” And you see it in women who struggle instead of fight. Women are used to handling men in certain ways, with certain subconscious rules—social ways, not physical ones. These systems are very effective within society and not effective at all when civilization is no longer a factor, such as in a violent assault or rape. On a deep level, most women feel at a gut level that if they fight a man he will escalate the situation to a savage beating, punishment for her challenge to his “manhood.” They feel this way because it is true. This is a hard thing to write. Years ago, before I learned to just listen, a friend told me her story. It had been several days and most of the swelling had gone down. She told me about the rape and the beating. I asked her if she had fought. Not my business and decades of experience later I would have just listened, but I was young and believed that there were more right and wrong answers than there are. She shook her head and said, “I was afraid he’d hurt me if I fought.

I still catch myself feeling blue about things that don’t matter any more.

Drinkers at social events will tell you they don’t need to drink. But, when the next bit of anxiety comes up, they grab another glass. Smokers will tell you they enjoy lighting up. They’ll tell you they feel better right after a cigarette. And nearly all of them will tell you they really want to quit—they’re just not quite ready yet. Workaholics will tell you they enjoy what they do, or at least feel a sense of purpose, while stretching themselves to the breaking point. They’ll tell you they have to do it. Some will even admit that it makes them feel important. They’ll promise to get control of their schedules… as soon as the next project is done. Compulsive shoppers love to hit the stores. They call it “stress management” or “retail therapy.” For a few hours, they’ll say, everything is perfect. After they get the goodies home, though, some will tell you they feel empty or even disgusted. They’d love a simpler life—but only if they first can buy the best of everything. People who misuse prescription drugs will tell you the pills ease their pain. The pain from a surgery or disease was so extreme that they got prescribed a medication, and soon they had to take more and more to keep the pain away. They’ll say they hate being constantly constipated and forgetting where they are, but it’s the only way they believe they can function and feel normal.

They’re forming mutual-interest groups for all kinds of things.” “Like Starfleet, and the Borg.” “Mm-hmm. And the Skippies—” “Skippies? Skippies?” I could feel my eyes bugging out, even in VR. “What, they’ve changed their avatars to beer cans and started calling people monkeys?” Bill snorted his coffee and had to take a moment to compose himself. “No,

Skippies? Skippies?” I could feel my eyes bugging out, even in VR. “What, they’ve changed their avatars to beer cans and started calling people monkeys?

I never felt a biological tug looking at children. It’s not that I’m missing maternal feelings, it’s more like they apply only to cats and dogs, possibly small monkeys. While I’m happy for everyone who wants a family, I look at the notion of having kids the same way I look at people who get tattoos on their faces, like, “Hoo-boy, that’s permanent.

How can the head ever compete with the strength of the heart’s feelings?

Norepinephrine: The Wake-Up Neurotransmitter One of norepinephrine’s effects on the brain is to sharpen attention. As we saw earlier, norepinephrine (aka noradrenaline) can function as both a neurotransmitter and a hormone. When we perceive stress and activate the fight-or-flight response, the brain produces bursts of norepinephrine, triggering anxiety. But sustained and moderate secretion can also produce a beneficial result in the form of heightened attention, even euphoria, and meditation has been shown to produce a rise in norepinephrine in the brain. A modest dose of norepinephrine is also associated with reduced beta brain waves. 5.11. Norepinephrine: your wake-up molecule. Notice the paradox here. Norepinephrine is associated with both anxiety and attentiveness. How do you get enough to be alert, but not so much you’re stressed? Surrender is the key. Steven Kotler, co-author of Stealing Fire, says that stress neurochemicals like norepinephrine actually prime the brain for flow states. At first, the meditator is frustrated by Monkey Mind. But if she surrenders, despite the perpetual self-chatter of the DMN, she enters the next phase of flow, which is focus. She has hacked her biology, using the negative experience of mind wandering as a springboard to flow. Norepinephrine’s molecular structure is similar to its cousin, epinephrine. While epinephrine works on a number of sites in the body, norepinephrine works exclusively on the arteries. When both dopamine and norepinephrine are present in the brain at the same time, they amplify focus. Attention becomes sharp, while perception is enhanced. Staying alert is a key function of the brain’s attention circuit, which keeps you focused on the object of your meditation and counteracts the wandering mind. It also stops you from becoming drowsy, an occupational hazard for meditators. That’s because pleasure neurotransmitters such as serotonin and melatonin (for which serotonin is the precursor) can put you to sleep if not balanced by alertness-producing norepinephrine. Again, the ratios are the key. Oxytocin: The Hug Drug 5.12. Oxytocin: your cuddle molecule. Oxytocin is produced by the hypothalamus, part of the brain’s limbic system. When activated, neurons in the hypothalamus stimulate the pituitary gland to release oxytocin into the bloodstream. So even though oxytocin is produced in the brain, it has effects on the body as well, giving it the status of a hormone. It is one of a group of small protein molecules called neuropeptides. A closely related neuropeptide is vasopressin. All mammals produce some variant of these neuropeptides. Oxytocin promotes bonding between humans. It is responsible for maternal feelings and physically prepares the female body for childbirth and nursing. It is generated through physical touch but also by emotional intimacy. Oxytocin also facilitates generosity and trust within a group. Oxytocin is the hormone associated with the long slow waves of delta. A researcher hooking subjects up to an EEG found that touch stimulated greater amounts of delta, with certain regions of the skin being more sensitive. The biggest effect was produced by tapping the cheek, as we do in EFT. It produced an 800% spike in delta.

I need to name you,” I tell the rock. “The hell you do.” “I’m thinking . . .” “Already got a name,” the rock says. “. . . oh, but that’s too obvious.” I laugh. I laugh hard. It’s the first time I’ve laughed in so long that all my emotional triggers, which have only known sobbing, mix some tears in with the laughter. “Don’t you fucking dare,” the rock says. “I’m going to call you . . .” “I’VE GOT A NAME!” “. . . Rocky.” Rocky stares at me. It’s more of a glare, really. I start laughing again. Damn, it feels good. “You’re the worst human I’ve ever met,” Rocky says. I wipe the tears from my cheeks. “I think maybe when the supply shuttle comes, I’ll just keep you. Not tell the labcoats about you.” “That’s called kidnapping, you sadistic ape.” This makes me laugh some more. It’s the accent. It kills me. “Are you stoned?” Rocky asks. And this is too much. I double over and clutch my shins, there in the command pod, not a stitch of clothing on, laughing and crying and wheezing for breath, fearing I might not be able to stop, that I’ll die like this, die from so much joy and mirth, while debris from a destroyed cargo ship peppers the hull and cracks into the solar array, and ships full of people navigate through space at twenty times the speed of light, narrowly avoiding this great reef of drifting rocks, and all because I’m here, because I’m holding it together, this trained and hairless monkey in outer space.

The visitors who [came to the orphanage] on receiving days he had divided into three classes: the psalm-singing kind, who came with a tear in the eye and hypocrisy in every feature of their faces; the kind who dressed in silks and jewels, and handed to those poor little mother-hungry souls worn toys that their children no longer cared for, in exactly the same spirit in which they pitched biscuits to the monkeys at the zoo, and for the same reason—to see how they would take them and be amused by what they would do; and the third class, whom he considered real people. They made him feel they cared that he was there, and that they would have been glad to see him elsewhere.

We cannot relax and be at peace unless we feel safe.

I feel like a circus monkey being forced to perform for other monkeys.

You will spend 90,000 hours of your life working. That’s more than you will spend doing anything else except sleeping. And you know you owe it to yourself to make those hours the most meaningful that they can possibly be. You know you can’t resign yourself to a listless job. You don’t want to spend your one life grinding out work you care little about, a sad office-humor cliché. You’re here because you want more out of your career, even as you’re facing a stupid-tight and ever-shifting job market, nagging self-doubt, the challenges of rampant sexism and racism in the workplace, a persistent wage gap (particularly for women of color), a lack of precedent for female leadership in most careers, a lack of mentors, and mansplaining men everywhere you look. You’re here because you’re tired of feeling quite so delicate, one professional rejection away from emotional cataclysm, a floor puddle of Chunky Monkey and Netflix. Because you want to get stronger and more sure-footed. Because you don’t want to be tripped up by small things like what to say in an e-mail, and big ones like how to ask for a raise. Because you don’t yet know when you need to stand up for yourself and when you definitely don’t need to stand up for yourself. You’re here because you haven’t realized yet that you’re not alone, that even your heroes think they are impostors, that we all think we don’t deserve to be here, we all believe, despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary, that we are irrelevant, incompetent trash people, and soon THEY ARE ALL GOING TO KNOW. You are here because no matter how nasty the self-talk and shitty programming that’s intermittently popping off in your brain, the voices that tell you you’re lazy, untalented, the worst, you need to find empathy for yourself, you need someone to tell you how you are feeling is normal. That you belong. That you CAN do this. Because you can.

Dedicated to Hitler (Sonnet of Lesser Evil) I'll write a book of german sonnets, and dedicate it to Adolf Hitler. The very thought makes you mad right! I feel the same way when you glorify Churchill as savior. The west has systematically peddled morons and monkeys as kings heroic, white suffering is human suffering, while the colored belong on national geographic. Sure every society has its own troubles, All of humanity has its inhumanity. But the west doesn't have the high ground, to pass judgment on ethics and morality. If morality did have a scale, West would be scraping the bottom. If this tickles you the wrong way, You are what is wrong with our western world.

Grownup Happiness (The Sonnet) I don't do Netflix, I don't binge for adrenaline. I find it far more soothing to listen to old BBC radio shows while I do my writing. Happiness is not a matter of exhilaration, Happiness is a matter of moderation. Just because all the monkeys are partying, doesn't mean you gotta give submission. So I say, get your priorities straight, Happiness will take care of itself. If you don't know to draw your own lines, That's not freedom, but apish descent. I don't scroll till I pass out, I don't drink till I feel sick. Happiness means happy-in-less, Trends don't bring you peace.

The shallow and self-centered view that sees what is worthy in nature as that which resembles us seems vapid and petty by comparison. We try so hard to show that chimpanzees, or monkeys, or dogs, or cats, or rats, or chickens, or fish, or frogs are like us in their thoughts and feelings; in doing so we do nothing but denigrate what they really are. We define true intelligence and true feeling in human terms, and in so doing blind ourselves to the wonder of life's diversity that evolution has bequeathed earth." -Mr. Budiansky

I bet now you feel we humans should have remained monkeys. 'But humans were never monkeys! I created humans as humans and monkeys as monkeys. I see this all the time! Humans do hundreds of years of research and come up with some utter crap. Just think about it, will you? Do I need to create monkeys and then wait for centuries to create humans out of them? Could I not create monkeys and humans at the same time? If I can create monkeys, why wouldn't I be able to create humans? Such foolishness!

Extrapolating from the drone and its camera settings, that thing was the best part of a metre long," she remarked at last, shakily. "That was no fucking monkey," Karst spat. Behind the Gilgamesh itself, the green world and its orbiting sentinel fell away into obscurity, leaving the ark ship's crew with, at best, mixed feelings about it.

Attend a university if you possibly can. There is no content of knowledge that is not pertinent to the work you will want to do. But before you attend a university work at something for a while. Do anything. Get a job in a potato field; or work as a grease-monkey in an auto repair shop. But if you do work in a field do not fail to observe the look and the feel of earth and of all things that you handle — yes, even potatoes! Or, in the auto shop, the smell of oil and grease and burning rubber. Paint of course, but if you have to lay aside painting for a time, continue to draw. Listen well to all conversations and be instructed by them and take all seriousness seriously. Never look down upon anything or anyone as not worthy of notice. In college or out of college, read. And form opinions! Read Sophocles and Euripides and Dante and Proust. Read everything that you can find about art except the reviews. Read the Bible; read Hume; read Pogo. Read all kinds of poetry and know many poets and many artists. Go to and art school, or two, or three, or take art courses at night if necessary. And paint and paint and draw and draw. Know all that you can, both curricular and noncurricular — mathematics and physics and economics, logic and particularly history. Know at least two languages besides your own, but anyway, know French. Look at pictures and more pictures. Look at every kind of visual symbol, every kind of emblem; do not spurn signboards of furniture drawings of this style of art or that style of art. Do not be afraid to like paintings honestly or to dislike them honestly, but if you do dislike them retain an open mind. Do not dismiss any school of art, not the Pre-Raphaelites nor the Hudson River School nor the German Genre painters. Talk and talk and sit at cafés, and listen to everything, to Brahms, to Brubeck, to the Italian hour on the radio. Listen to preachers in small town churches and in big city churches. Listen to politicians in New England town meetings and to rabble-rousers in Alabama. Even draw them. And remember that you are trying to learn to think what you want to think, that you are trying to co-ordinate mind and hand and eye. Go to all sorts of museums and galleries and to the studios of artists. Go to Paris and Madrid and Rome and Ravenna and Padua. Stand alone in Sainte Chapelle, in the Sistine Chapel, in the Church of the Carmine in Florence. Draw and draw and paint and learn to work in many media; try lithography and aquatint and silk-screen. Know all that you can about art, and by all means have opinions. Never be afraid to become embroiled in art of life or politics; never be afraid to learn to draw or paint better than you already do; and never be afraid to undertake any kind of art at all, however exalted or however common, but do it with distinction.

I have sometimes told people, probably wrongly, that there’s no point in writing at all if you don’t feel that there’s something you absolutely have to explore. The idea that someone may want ‘to be a writer’ but have no idea of what to write is quite paradoxical, in one way. After all, why write things down if you don’t have a burning desire to communicate something? But actually, most people who want to write do have things to communicate, they just don’t necessarily know what they are yet. I have themes and ideas in my mind constantly, as do many other people. I care about things in the world and I want to express this somehow. Part of becoming a writer is working out which of all the strange thoughts you have in a given day are worth exploring further.

Everything in this manual is blatantly manipulative, but here’s the deal--all communication is manipulation. I cannot communicate, I cannot put a thought in your head, without manipulation. I have to get you to read this book. When you read it I must use skill to make sure that the message received is the message I intended. I want you to communicate skillfully, and one of the keys is to engage with the other person’s Human brain. And that means not triggering his or her Monkey brain. If someone feels their status is being challenged or questioned, much less threatened, the limbic system will kick in. Once the limbic system has kicked in, well, how good are you at talking to Monkeys in a way that gets things done? So study status. If you have a boss who acts out, gets aggressive and yells, instead of labeling him as an insecure little prick (labeling, hmmm?), try to take away his insecurity. If you are about to present an idea, ask for help with it instead of offering to help. The status that you manipulate here is not real. It is imaginary status based on what the ghost community of long-dead primates values.

She goes to Seth and starts to take Mellie from him, but I reach around her and pick up the sleeping girl instead. Mellie wraps her arms around my neck and her legs around my waist, and she clings to me like she’s a Velcro monkey. My heart stutters a little. I like this feeling. I like it a lot, and my heart aches because I will never have this. “I can take her,” Skylar says, holding out her hands. “I got her,” I say, and Seth stands up with Joey wrapped around him. I hitch Mellie a little higher, and she makes a snuffling noise against my neck. I don’t have any desire to put her down.

You know he came to see me, right?” he asks. I roll my eyes. “I’m not deaf, Dad. You just told me that.” “Not today, Sky. Yesterday. He came to see me.” I go to the fridge and get a bottle of water. Chunky Monkey makes me thirsty, apparently. “Why would Matt come to see you?” “He wanted to ask for my permission to marry you.” I drop my bottle, and it rolls across the floor. “He wanted what?” “You’re not deaf, Sky,” he says. “Not funny, Dad.” But a grin steals across my face. “He really asked you that?” He smiles, too. “Yeah, he did. I told him you guys should just shack up like young people do, but he told me he couldn’t do that as long as there are impressionable kids in the house. He said that Seth will learn how to treat women from the way he treats you, and that Joey and Mellie will learn how to treat men from the way you treat him. And vice versa. So, he wants to marry you and make it all legitimate.” My heart warms at the very idea of it. “He hasn’t asked me yet.” But I know what my answer would be. I feel for my ring finger with the pad of my thumb. I want to wear Matt’s ring. I want him to be my husband. Dad takes in my grin. “He’s the one, huh?” he asks. “Yeah,” I say. “He’s the one.” “I had a feeling he would be. I met him when Kendra was sick. He seems like a wonderful person. Good and kind. And persistent.” He narrows his eyes at me. I laugh. “He’s definitely persistent. But you know what I love about him most, Dad?” I ask. He quirks a brow instead of responding. “I love that he was willing to give up tonight and walk away for the good of the kids.” “I don’t get it.” He looks confused. “I ran to my apartment because I didn’t want to face him. He came there and told me he would give up if I would just go back to the kids, because they didn’t deserve for me to leave them. He quit our argument. He walked away. And that makes me love him even more than I did before.” Dad walks over and gives me an awkward hug. He’s not nearly as good at it as Seth is, but he’s trying. He gets points for trying. I look up at my dad. “Did you tell him yes, Dad?” I ask quietly. He brushes my hair back from my face. “Yes, Sky. I did.” I grin. “I’m glad.” “Me, too. Glad you met him. Glad he’s capable of loving you like you deserve.

He takes my hand and grips it tightly. He holds it so long that our palms get sweaty and stick together. I extricate mine and pull back. “Sometimes I feel like I can’t get close enough to you,” he says. He’s not looking at me. He’s looking toward where Hayley is climbing on the monkey bars. I scratch my head. “I don’t think we can get much closer than we were last night.” He shakes his head. “Sex is easy. It’s the rest of it that’s difficult.” I look at his profile because he’s still not looking at me. I pretend to make light of his comment and scoff. “I wouldn’t say that I made sex easy.” His gaze suddenly jerks to mine. “We didn’t have sex.” I hold up one finger and grin. “I distinctly remember—” But he cuts me off. “I remember it, too. I remember telling you that I loved you and you telling me you felt the same way. And we made mad, passionate love. Crazy good love like I have never had before. And then we did it again. And then we pulled my daughter into bed with us and that was the best fucking part about the whole thing.” He turns to face me. “I want a family, Friday. Not just a fuck. Tail is easy to come by. You, on the other hand…” He lets his voice trail off. “You’re one of a fucking kind, and I want you to be mine so badly I can taste it. And I’ll still be tasting it next week, next year, and every day following that.” “I’m with you,” I say hesitantly. I don’t know how much more of a commitment I can offer him. I’ve already offered more than I ever thought I would be able to offer anyone. He leans over and hovers over my lips. “I love you so fucking much,” he says. “Just remember that.” He stares into my eyes for a minute, and then he goes to Hayley and races her to the sliding board.

Even the argument that you have had a hundred times with your partner, the one that never gets solved. You get frustrated, feeling like you are stuck in a broken record. It doesn’t benefit you. In many cases, it doesn’t benefit anyone. Is anyone happy and satisfied in an abusive relationship? In a dysfunctional office or family? Even when we know it is dysfunctional, we keep doing the same things over and over again. We are on a script. If the script doesn’t benefit anybody, why do we do it? We do it because the Monkey brain believes it benefits everybody. It benefits the group. The Monkey brain feels it is a survival necessity to be in a group. It is nearly as important to know one’s place in the group. Once these are established, no matter how horrible it may be (the daughter who is the target of abuse is not in what one would call a high-status role in a nice group), the Monkey is afraid that changing anything may change everything. And the Monkey sees that as death.

The moral of Harlow's experiment is that primate babies are born with an intense need for attachment. They cuddled with the cloth mothers because they wanted to experience the warmth and tenderness of a real mother. Even more than food, these baby monkeys craved the feeling of affection. "It's as if the animals are programmed to seek out love,

Holden was starting to feel like they were all monkeys playing with a microwave. Push a button, a light comes on inside, so it’s a light. Push a different button and stick your hand inside, it burns you, so it’s a weapon. Learn to open and close the door, it’s a place to hide things. Never grasping what it actually did, and maybe not even having the framework necessary to figure it out. No monkey ever reheated a frozen burrito. So

Imagine this: summer leaves are blanketing the park under a cloudless sky and a gentle breeze is lifting along the shouts and laughter of children. Some children are running around tirelessly while others are just hanging around talking or engaged in some activity that only other children fully understand. Amidst this typical scenario, one can almost always find a parent chasing a child who is seemingly full of boundless energy, as he races around, going up and down the slide over and over, climbing the monkey bars, and clowning around with almost everyone despite the repeated warnings and reminders from the exhausted parent. But the child appears to not even hear the warnings and reminders, or chooses to ignore them. Eventually, the poor parent cannot keep up anymore, as she has run around until she has gotten so tired, that she feels like smacking her head against a tree or brick wall.

It killed humans, therefore it was a weapon. But radiation killed humans, and a medical X-ray machine wasn’t intended as a weapon. Holden was starting to feel like they were all monkeys playing with a microwave.

Time passed slowly, each weary minute dragging on forever. Then a movement close by made his shoulders jerk in shock. The foliage rustled and his face tensed in terror because he knew what it was. He was too afraid to open his eyes and look, feeling that even the flicker of

Good morning,” Valentine said, uncertain whether to address only Harry or include Poppy. She solved the dilemma by giving him an artless smile. “Good morning, Mr. Valentine. I hope there are no fugitive monkeys in the hotel today?” Valentine grinned. “Not that I’m aware of, Mrs. Rutledge. But the day’s still young.” Harry experienced a new sensation, a poisonous resentment that crept all through his body. Was it . . . jealousy? It had to be. He tried to suppress the feeling, but it lingered in the pit of his stomach. He wanted Poppy to smile at him like that. He wanted her playfulness, her charm, her attention.

The Lost City of the Monkey God is a throwback to the golden age of adventure archaeology, the thrilling true story of a group of explorers penetrating one of the toughest jungles on earth in search of a lost city…and finding it. Preston is a terrific writer of both non-fiction books and bestselling novels and makes you feel the dark heart of this lost Honduran wilderness.” —John Sandford, Pulitzer Prize–winning journalist and New York Times bestselling author

Whenever someone asks for my opinion about other authors, I feel like I'm looking at a monkey asking for opinions on bananas. I would not write books if I didn't know, for a certainty, that I am the best.

I’ve just been to see Audrey,” Beatrix said breathlessly, entering the private upstairs parlor and closing the door. “Poor Mr. Phelan isn’t well, and--well, I’ll tell you about that in a minute, but--here’s a letter from Captain Phelan!” Prudence smiled and took the letter. “Thank you, Bea. Now, about the officers I met last night…there was a dark-haired lieutenant who asked me to dance, and he--” “Aren’t you going to open it?” Beatrix asked, watching in dismay as Prudence laid the letter on a side table. Prudence gave her a quizzical smile. “My, you’re impatient today. You want me to open it this very moment?” ”Yes.” Beatrix promptly sat in a chair upholstered with flower-printed fabric. “But I want to tell you about the lieutenant.” “I don’t give a monkey about the lieutenant, I want to hear about Captain Phelan.” Prudence gave a low chuckle. “I haven’t seen you this excited since you stole that fox that Lord Campdon imported from France last year.” “I didn’t steal him, I rescued him. Importing a fox for a hunt…I call that very unsporting.” Beatrix gestured to the letter. “Open it!” Prudence broke the seal, skimmed the letter, and shook her head in amused disbelief. “Now he’s writing about mules.” She rolled her eyes and gave Beatrix the letter. Miss Prudence Mercer Stony Cross Hampshire, England 7 November 1854 Dear Prudence, Regardless of the reports that describe the British soldier as unflinching, I assure you that when riflemen are under fire, we most certainly duck, bob, and run for cover. Per your advice, I have added a sidestep and a dodge to my repertoire, with excellent results. To my mind, the old fable has been disproved: there are times in life when one definitely wants to be the hare, not the tortoise. We fought at the southern port of Balaklava on the twenty-fourth of October. Light Brigade was ordered to charge directly into a battery of Russian guns for no comprehensible reason. Five cavalry regiments were mowed down without support. Two hundred men and nearly four hundred horses lost in twenty minutes. More fighting on the fifth of November, at Inkerman. We went to rescue soldiers stranded on the field before the Russians could reach them. Albert went out with me under a storm of shot and shell, and helped to identify the wounded so we could carry them out of range of the guns. My closest friend in the regiment was killed. Please thank your friend Prudence for her advice for Albert. His biting is less frequent, and he never goes for me, although he’s taken a few nips at visitors to the tent. May and October, the best-smelling months? I’ll make a case for December: evergreen, frost, wood smoke, cinnamon. As for your favorite song…were you aware that “Over the Hills and Far Away” is the official music of the Rifle Brigade? It seems nearly everyone here has fallen prey to some kind of illness except for me. I’ve had no symptoms of cholera nor any of the other diseases that have swept through both divisions. I feel I should at least feign some kind of digestive problem for the sake of decency. Regarding the donkey feud: while I have sympathy for Caird and his mare of easy virtue, I feel compelled to point out that the birth of a mule is not at all a bad outcome. Mules are more surefooted than horses, generally healthier, and best of all, they have very expressive ears. And they’re not unduly stubborn, as long they’re managed well. If you wonder at my apparent fondness for mules, I should probably explain that as a boy, I had a pet mule named Hector, after the mule mentioned in the Iliad. I wouldn’t presume to ask you to wait for me, Pru, but I will ask that you write to me again. I’ve read your last letter more times than I can count. Somehow you’re more real to me now, two thousand miles away, than you ever were before. Ever yours, Christopher P.S. Sketch of Albert included

Don't believe your thoughts; they are just neurotransmitters locking into receptor sites, not reality. ... As I studied and practiced more, I began to see that this emerging freedom from the tyranny of my thoughts was the only real freedom. ... This is a key to living yoga. Watching thoughts of anger, greed, boredom, impatience, I was no longer at the mercy of them. I had some space to choose what I would say and do in a way I never had before. I began to recognize patterns; I began to take it all more lightly. By learning to relax, I experienced less physical tension, which allowed me to see my monkey mind, which allowed me to let go of it a bit, which allowed be to feel more connected to the present moment, which is another word for the Infinite.

Sometimes,” said Helmholtz, “I get so lonely and disgusted, I don’t see how I can stand it. I feel like doing all kinds of crazy things, just for the heck of it—things that might even be bad for me.” Jim blew a smoke ring expertly. “And then!” said Helmholtz. He snapped his fingers and honked his horn. “And then, Jim, I remember I’ve got at least one tiny corner of the universe I can make just the way I want it! I can go to it and gloat over it until I’m brand-new and happy again.

The entertainment palled. Fatigue like gravitation pulled at limbs and eyelids. As they had come so they departed, first Abbzug, then the two women from San Diego. The ladies first. Not because they were the weaker sex—they were not—but simply because they had more sense. Men on an outing feel obliged to stay up drinking to the vile and bilious end, jabbering, mumbling and maundering through the blear, to end up finally on hands and knees, puking on innocent sand, befouling God’s sweet earth. The manly tradition. The

Ultimately, the Valley attitude is an empowered anomie turbocharged by selfishness, respecting some nominal “feel-good” principals of progress or collective technological striving, but in truth pursuing a continual self-development refracted through the capitalist prism: hippies with a capitalization table and a vesting schedule.

Aristocracy means that the wise men will choose the arrangement and the monkeys will yield and follow. Nothing can work like aristocracy if it is run properly. Democracy is bound to be a chaos. But the monkeys feel very happy because they are choosing the arrangement. The world was happier when the choice was with wise men.

It is not the purpose of the universe to get things done as quickly and efficiently as possible. That's a mortal preoccupation, especially strong in monkey mammals, but we all feel it to one degree or another ...

He nodded, shrugging. The man had serious issues. I ate the pink donut quickly, nonetheless. As I did, Sherbet watched me curiously, as if I was a monkey in a zoo exhibiting strange behavior. Funny, when I was done, I didn’t feel gay. “Any good?” he asked. “Quite,” I said. “And no gay side effects. At least not yet.” “Maybe I’ll have one.” And

I went to a psychiatrist (NBC insisted we all go) and told her I had been through traumatic experiences before and understood that the kidnapping would leave “fingerprints” on me for a while. The key was knowing what to expect. If you get blind drunk, you know you’re going to wake up with a hangover. By the same token, I expected post-traumatic stress symptoms—anger, irritability, a sense of isolation—and I experienced those feelings, off and on, for several months. It’s like having the monkey on your back again, and being self-aware helps shake him off.

Dr. Drew Westen, in his book The Political Brain, writes about a study in which people who label themselves “conservative” or “liberal” are asked to explain their political views. They feel logical. They sound logical. But their neocortex (where logic resides) isn’t even active. The activity is in their limbic system, their emotional centers. Their Monkey brains. When

You know the limited edition ramp. If you write very obscure verse (and why shouldn't you, pray?) for which there is little or no market, you pretend there is an enormous demand, and that the stuff has to be rationed. Only 300 copies will be printed, you say, and then the type will be broken up forever. Let the connoisseurs and bibliophiles savage each other for the honor of snatching a copy. Positively no reprint. Reproduction in whole or in part forbidden. 300 copes of which this is Number 4,312. Hand-monkeyed oklamon paper, indigo boards in inter-pulped squirrel-toe, not to mention twelve point Campile Perpetua cast specially for the occasion. Complete, unabridged, and positively unexpurgated. Thirty-five bob a knock and a gory livid bleeding bargain at the price. Well, I have decided to carry this thing a bit further. I beg to announce respectfully my coming volume of verse entitled 'Scorn for Taurus.' We have decided to do it in eight point Caslon on turkey-shutter paper with covers in purple corduroy. But look out for the catch. When the type has been set up, it will instantly be destroyed, and NO COPY WHATSOEVER WILL BE PRINTED. In no circumstances will the company's servants be permitted to carry away even a rough printer's proof. The edition will be so utterly limited that a thousand pounds will not even buy one copy. This is my idea of being exclusive. The charge will be 5 shillings. Please do not make an exhibition of yourself by asking me what you get for your money. You get nothing you can see or feel, not even a receipt. But you do yourself the honor of participating in one of the most far-reaching literary experiments ever carried out in my literary workshop.

Oh! Trash!” he cried. “Words, it’s the mechanics again! It’s tiring at first to speak—and then it’s caught by the Others, the savage Others! The poor Me—and Magne is a Me whereas you are a pig, a miscreant Other— the poor Me—there’re maybe 500 of us total on this foul earthly globe!— why can’t they communicate together without straining their larynx!” Nigeot agreed with Kmôhoûn. “And then everything’s…mechanics, effort, on this dung pile of a planet! You have to get dressed and undressed. You can never stay in a state, you always have to change states! Idiots, pigs that we are! You’re comfortable in bed, aren’t you? Oh well, crack! You have to get up! You’re okay when you’re up? Oh well! Bang, bing, bang! You have to go to bed! Get dressed, get undressed! Trash! Mechanics! We lost our fur, our hair, rubbing against it and scraping it with these damn costumes! Look at the monkeys! A lot prettier than us; they look better and have no mechanics to wear. Mechanics, you know, is everything that is against thinking and good old lassitude: movement, stupid moving of arms, arduous stupidity of being a well raised human, no revolt against the stupidities tolerated by the cowardly mob, who’s happy to tyrannize itself when it’s already pestered by the padishahs. Yes, look at the monkeys, the pretty monkeys! No mechanics to wear, lucky devils, good old monkeys! Nothing to do but chuck water on themselves whenever they feel like it!... And when they’re ready! Oh! Real world! Pile of crap where you have to work, even just to button up your shirt! Oh! When will we be in a higher world where they won’t have these appalling paws? Nothing but little things to fly in the warm blue—warm! You know? Little… mechanics… oh! bing! bang! No mechanics—infamy! —little feathery things like the little… things that chuck turds on our heads from up in the trees and after cry out tweet! tweet! in the air, the… what do you call them, the… birds, totally, yes!” And this Mongol who spouted his Polynesian or Gabonese opinions was originally from Saint Etienne, a city that was so busy it was like industrial epilepsy! But, in fact, it was very simple! He was “tired from birth,” as one of my friends used to say who felt the same way, but had nothing to do with Saint Etienne.

The first time Dr. Santos encountered the small, pink-faced monkeys, she was hooked. She tells the story of how one day she was sitting alone on the beach eating. A monkey came by and sat beside her with a piece of monkey chow. The two sat together eating.

I knew early on that children weren’t in my plans. I never once played with baby dolls. I preferred Barbies because it would have been illegal to dress up a baby for her Studio 54 date with Ken. I never felt a biological tug looking at children. It’s not that I’m missing maternal feelings, it’s more like they apply only to cats and dogs, possibly small monkeys. While I’m happy for everyone who wants a family, I look at the notion of having kids the same way I look at people who get tattoos on their faces, like, “Hoo-boy, that’s permanent.

The major difference shows up when these monkeys are highly stressed (overaroused) for a long time. Then, compared to other monkeys, these more reactive monkeys seem anxious, depressed, and compulsive. If repeatedly upset, they show these behaviors more often, and at this point their neurotransmitters decrease. These behaviors and physical changes also show up in any monkey traumatized in childhood by being separated from its mother. Interestingly when first traumatized, what increases are the stress hormones like cortisol. But again, with time, especially with other stressors, like being isolated, the serotonin levels decline. Then the monkeys are permanently more reactive. The point to be realized from these two studies is that what creates the problem is chronic overarousal or stress or trauma in childhood—not the inherited trait. We saw the same point in chapter 2. Sensitive children experience more brief moments of arousal, with its increased adrenaline, but they’re fine if feeling secure. But when a sensitive child is insecure (or when any child is), short-term arousal turns to long-term arousal, with its increased cortisol. Eventually, serotonin is used up, too (according to the studies with monkeys). This research is important for HSPs. It makes very concrete why we need to avoid chronic overarousal. If our childhood programmed us to be threatened by everything, then we must do the inner work, usually in therapy, that will change that programming even if it takes years. Kramer cites evidence that a permanent susceptibility to overarousal and depression can develop and real harm can be done if serotonin levels are not returned to normal. So we want to stay secure, rested, and serotonin-strong. This keeps us ready to enjoy our trait’s advantages, the appreciation of the subtle. It means that the inevitable moments of overarousal do not lead to increased cortisol over days and decreased serotonin over months and years. If we have blown it, then we can still correct the situation. But it takes time, and we may want to use medication for a while to help make this correction.

An amicable divorce is not possible when you are dealing with a covert narcissist. The breakup is sudden. It is a fire hose of so many different traits. You will experience intermittent reinforcement, smear campaigns, flying monkeys, lies, manipulation, crazy-making conversations, triangulation, absolute absence of empathy, devaluing and demeaning insults, emotional immaturity, profound selfishness, entitled superiority, and so much more during this discard phase. You will feel a betrayal like you’ve never known.

Interestingly, the post facto analyses also revealed that the NIH control monkeys naturally consumed about 10 percent fewer calories per day than the Wisconsin controls, likely because their higher-quality diet left them feeling less hungry.

I’ve plenty of scope,” returned Monkey. “It’s the kind of doctoring that appeals to me. I’ll tell you what I feel about doctoring—if it won’t bore you—you see, everyone wants to specialize now, or nearly everybody who has the brains for it. They sit in their consulting rooms like so many spiders; they diagnose, and, if necessary, they operate, and then they say good-bye and send in their bill. Well, it’s necessary to have people like that, I suppose, but that’s not my idea of doctoring. I mean it doesn’t appeal to me personally. My idea of doctoring is to get to know your patients, to help their minds as well as their bodies.

Japanese phrase, “Sodom oh ki kata, ochidu” – which means, even monkeys fall out of trees.

What if it is somehow our misunderstood, unacknowledged, looping relationship to our future that makes us ill—or at least, that contributes to our suffering—and not our failure to connect appropriately to our past? Could some neuroses be time loops misrecognized and denied, the way we haunt ourselves from our futures and struggle to reframe it as being about our past history? The next two chapters will examine this question through the lives of two famously precognitive and neurotic writers. Both show strikingly how creativity may travel together with trauma and suffering along the resonating string that connects us to the Not Yet. 12 Fate, Free Will, and Futility — Morgan Robertson’s Tiresias Complex Who can tell us of the power which events possess … Are their workings in the past or in the future; and are the more powerful of them those that are no longer, or those that are not yet? Is it to-day or to-morrow that moulds us? Do we not all spend the greater part of our lives under the shadow of an event that has not yet come to pass? — Maurice Maeterlinck, “The Pre-Destined” (1914) The monkey wrench precognition appears to throw into the problem of free will is an important part of the force field inhibiting serious consideration of it by many people in our culture. It may have been a fear of the inevitability of things prophesied that made the whole subject so anathema to Freud, for example. In a society that places priority on success and the individual’s responsibility for its attainment, it is both taken for granted and a point of fierce conviction that we choose and that our choices are not completely made for us by the inexorable clockwork of matter—the Newtonian inertia that brought the Titanic and the Iceberg, mere inert objects, together. Scientists may pay lip service to determinism—Freud himself did—but the inevitability of material processes due to causes “pushing” from the past somehow feels less restrictive than a block universe in which our fate is already set. The radical predestination implied by time loops may rob “great men” of their ability to claim credit for their successes.

Tomoya: Nagisa! (gasps) Nagisa! Nagisa: (weakly) Tomoya… Tomoya: She’s here, Nagisa. She’s-she's right here! You can hear her, right? That’s our baby, that’s our baby crying. Nagisa: (weakly) Y-yeah… Tomoya: Here, look! I got to hold her before anyone else, see? Nagisa: Oh…she turned out so cute… Tomoya: This is our little baby, Nagisa. It’s our little Ushio. Nagisa: Hey there, Shio… Tomoya: It’s a girl, she’s as healthy as can be! Nagisa: Yeah… I’m so glad I could have her here with you, Tomoya… I’m sorry I had to make Shio work so hard for it, but at least we were all together… Tomoya: You did a great job. I mean it. Nagisa: (Sighs) Hey…I’m sorry, but I’m starting to feel a little tired. Could you let me rest? Just for a second…? Tomoya: Come on, let’s talk just-just a little longer, okay? You don’t have to say anything, just listen. Come on, you have to look at our baby. She kinda looks like a cute little monkey, doesn’t she? See? She’s so tiny. Here, I’m going to call her name, okay? Ushio. Hey, it’s daddy, Ushio. And this is mommy, see? Look at her, see? (Sniffles and laughs softly) She’s ignoring me. Guess, she doesn’t understand yet. I’ll bet she’ll grow up before we know it. She’ll be starting school. We’ll have to go clothes shopping with her. We’ll have open house and school festivals to go to. We’ll do it all as a family, even though I used to make fun of that stuff growing up. (chuckles) Nagisa? (gasps) Nagisa. Here, it’s Ushio’s cheek. Come on. Hey… (Nagisa Breathes heavily) Tomoya: Nagisa. You told me you’d always be by my side. You said, we’d always be together. You promised me that, remember? Over and over again. We both promised. That was my only dream. Nothing good ever happened to me until I met you. I thought I had a crappy life but even someone useless like me finally found something to live for. Right, Nagisa? Right? Nagisa… NAGISA!!! Tomoya thinks of flashback when they first met: Nagisa's voice echoing in his head: Do you like this school? I have to say that I love it very very much! But soon, everything changes. Well, at least it does eventually. Fun things, happy things, they’ll all eventually change someday, you know. But, do you think you can still love this place anyway? (Instead of meeting her Tomoya turns the other direction and walks away) We never should have met. We should have kept going down our separate paths. We never would have gone out. We never would have gotten married and Ushio never would have been born. Then, at least I wouldn’t have to go through so much suffering. (sniffle) (sighs) We never should have met.

The healing message Sevens need to hear and believe is God will take care of you. I know, easier said than done. It will take courage, determination, honesty, the help of a counselor or a spiritual director, and understanding friends to help Sevens confront painful memories and to encourage them to stay with afflictive feelings as they arise in the present moment. If Sevens cooperate with the process, they’ll grow a deep heart and become a truly integrated person. Ten Paths to Transformation for Sevens Practice restraint and moderation. Get off the treadmill that tells you more is always better. You suffer from “monkey mind.” Develop a daily practice of meditation to free yourself from your tendency to jump from one idea, topic or project to the next. Develop and practice the spiritual discipline of solitude on a regular basis. Unflinchingly reflect on the past and make a list of the people who have hurt you or whom you have hurt; then forgive them and yourself. Make amends where necessary. Give yourself a pat on the back whenever you allow yourself to feel negative emotions like anxiety, sadness, frustration, envy or disappointment without letting yourself run away to escape them. It’s a sign you’re starting to grow up! Bring yourself back to the present moment whenever you begin fantasizing about the future or making too many plans for it. Exercise daily to burn off excess energy. You don’t like being told you have potential because it means you’ll feel pressure to buckle down and commit to cultivating a specific talent, which will inevitably limit your options. But you do have potential, so what career or life path would you like to commit yourself to for the long haul? Take concrete steps to make good on the gifts God has given you. Get a journal and record your answers to questions like “What does my life mean? What memories or feelings am I running from? Where’s the depth I yearn to have that will complement my intelligence?” Don’t abandon this exercise until it’s finished. Make a commitment that when a friend or partner is hurting, you will try to simply be present for them while they are in pain without trying to artificially cheer them up.

Both Biruté and Jane are firmly rooted in the world of human endeavor. Jane has not become a chimp; Biruté has not become an orangutan. Yet the lives of all three women have been transformed by their visions; they are inexorably linked to the other nations through which they have traveled. In a sense they are, in the words of Henry Beston, living by voices we shall never hear; they are gifted with extensions of the senses we have lost or never attained. You need only listen to Jane’s excitement at seeing “a tree laden with luscious fruit”—fruit that to human senses is so tart it prompts a grimace. You need only remember how Dian would sing to the gorillas a gorilla song—praising the taste of rotting wood. You need only imagine what goes through Biruté’s mind when she does the “fruit stare” of the orangutan. Western scientists do not like to talk about these things, for to do so is to voice what for so long has been considered unspeakable. The bonds between human and animal and the psychic tools of empathy and intuition have been “coded dark” by Western science—labeled as hidden, implicit, unspoken. The truths through which we once explained our world, the truths spoken by the ancient myths, have been hushed by the louder voice of passionless scientific objectivity. But perhaps we are rediscovering the ancient truths. In his book Life of the Japanese Monkeys, the renowned Japanese primate researcher Kawai Masao outlines a new concept, upon which his research is built: he calls it kyokan, which translates as “feel-one.” He struck upon the concept after observing a female researcher on his team interacting with female Japanese macaques. “We [males] had always found it more difficult to distinguish among female [macaques],” he wrote. “However, a female researcher who joined our study could recognize individual females easily and understood their behavior, personality and emotional life better. . . . I had never before thought that female monkeys and women could immediately understand each other,” he wrote. “This revelation made me feel I had touched upon the essence of the feel-one method.” Masao’s book, unavailable to Western readers until translated into English by Pamela Asquith in 1981, explains that kyokan means “becoming fused with the monkeys’ lives where, through an intuitive channel, feelings are mutually exchanged.” Embodied in the kyokan approach is the idea that it is not only desirable to establish a feeling of shared life and mutual attachment with the study animals—to “feel one” with them—but that this feeling is necessary for proper science, for discovering truth. “It is our view that by positively entering the group, by making contact at some level, objectivity can be established,” Masao wrote. Masao is making a call for the scientist to return to the role of the ancient shaman: to “feel one” with the animals, to travel within their nations, to allow oneself to become transformed, to see what ordinary people cannot normally see. And this, far more than the tables of data, far more than the publications and awards, is the pioneering achievement of Jane Goodall, Biruté Galdikas, and Dian Fossey: they have dared to reapproach the Other and to sanctify the unity we share with those other nations that are, in Beston’s words, “caught with ourselves in the net of life and time, fellow prisoners of the splendor and travail of the earth.

And giraffes, they seem to know something more. Elephants, tigers, monkeys, zebras . . . whatever you feel around the rest, you feel different around giraffes.

Almost everyone, as almost always at such concerts, was white. It is something I can't help noticing; I notice it each time, and try to see past it. Part of that is a quick, complex series of negotiations: chiding myself for even seeing it, lamenting the reminders of how divided our life still remains, being annoyed that these thoughts can be counted on to pass through my mind at some point in the evening. Most of the people around me yesterday were middle-aged or old. I am used to it, but it never ceases to surprise me how easy it is to leave the hybridity of the city, and enter into all-white spaces, the homogeneity of which, as far as I can tell, causes no discomfort to the whites in them. The only thing odd, to some of them, is seeing me, young and black, in my seat or at the concession stand. At times, standing in line for the bathroom during intermission, I get looks that make me feel like Ota Benga, the Mbuti man who was put on display in the Monkey House at the Bronx Zoo in 1906. I weary of such thoughts, but I am habituated to them. But Mahler's music is not white, or black, not old or young, and whether it is even specifically human, rather than in accord with more universal vibrations, is open to question.

I feel something when a white woman mocks the body of Serena Williams by stuffing padding in her skirt and top. When First Lady Michelle Obama is called a monkey. When nine men and women are murdered in a church because they are Black. I feel anger. Even more frustrating, there are so few acceptable occasions for my rage to be expressed. Because I am a Black person, my anger is considered dangerous, explosive, and unwarranted. Because I am a woman, my anger supposedly reveals an emotional problem or gets dismissed as a temporary state that will go away once I choose to be rational. Because I am a Christian, my anger is dismissed as a character flaw, showing just how far I have turned from Jesus. Real Christians are nice, kind, forgiving—and anger is none of those things.

I often dreamed of being Aladdin. But it wasn’t for the rug, or the wishes, or the teeny monkey, but to know what it feels like to delicately touch a girl.

Utanga refugee camp was their home for four years. When Ilhan turned twelve, a Lutheran church sponsored her family to go to the United States. Ilhan arrived in Arlington, Virginia, in possession of two English phrases: “Hello” and “Shut up.” Her classmates yanked at her hijab, stuck chewing gum to it, and bombarded her with questions like, “Do you have hair? Do you have a pet monkey? Does it feel good to wear shoes for the first time?” Every day, the girl who had survived armed militias and a refugee camp was reminded that she was different. “This is the first time I realized the stigma that I carried as an immigrant and a refugee, and a Muslim person who was visibly Muslim, with a headscarf,” she told The New Yorker. “And that my blackness was a source of tension.” But as the kids bullied her, Ilhan remembered her grandfather telling her as a child: “Everything is temporary.” His words gave her courage.

When reckless monkeys start making rockets, they behave like some fancy junkie. When nuts and bolts hypnotize the apes, equity, justice and honor feel secondary.

Was there a moment you realized you could control how you interpreted things? I think one problem people have is not recognizing they can control how they interpret and respond to a situation. I think everyone knows it’s possible. There’s a great Osho lecture, titled “The Attraction for Drugs Is Spiritual.” He talks about why do people do drugs (everything from alcohol to psychedelics to cannabis). They’re doing it to control their mental state. They’re doing it to control how they react. Some people drink because it helps them not care as much, or they’re potheads because they can zone out, or they do psychedelics to feel very present or connected to nature. The attraction of drugs is spiritual. All of society does this to some extent. People chasing thrills in action sports or flow states or orgasms—any of these states people strive for are people trying to get out of their own heads. They’re trying to get away from the voice in their heads—the overdeveloped sense of self. At the very least, I do not want my sense of self to continue to develop and strengthen as I get older. I want it to be weaker and more muted so I can be more in present everyday reality, accept nature and the world for what it is, and appreciate it very much as a child would. [4] The first thing to realize is you can observe your mental state. Meditation doesn’t mean you’re suddenly going to gain the superpower to control your internal state. The advantage of meditation is recognizing just how out of control your mind is. It is like a monkey flinging feces, running around the room, making trouble, shouting, and breaking things. It’s completely uncontrollable. It’s an out-of-control madperson. You have to see this mad creature in operation before you feel a certain distaste toward it and start separating yourself from it. In that separation is liberation. You realize, “Oh, I don’t want to be that person. Why am I so out of control?” Awareness alone calms you down. [4] Insight meditation lets you run your brain in debug mode until you realize you’re just a subroutine in a larger program. I try to keep an eye on my internal monologue. It doesn’t always work. In the computer programming sense, I try to run my brain in “debugging mode” as much as possible. When I’m talking to someone, or when I’m engaged in a group activity, it’s almost impossible because your brain has too many things to handle. If I’m by myself, like just this morning, I’m brushing my teeth and I start thinking forward to a podcast. I started going through this little fantasy where I imagined Shane asking me a bunch of questions and I was fantasy- answering them. Then, I caught myself. I put my brain in debug mode and just watched every little instruction go by. I said, “Why am I fantasy-future planning? Why can’t I just stand here and brush my teeth?” It’s the awareness my brain was running off in the future and planning some fantasy scenario out of ego. I was like, “Well, do I really care if I embarrass myself? Who cares? I’m going to die anyway. This is all going to go to zero, and I won’t remember anything, so this is pointless.” Then, I shut down, and I went back to brushing my teeth. I was noticing how good the toothbrush was and how good it felt. Then the next moment, I’m off to thinking something else. I have to look at my brain again and say, “Do I really need to solve this problem right now?” Ninety-five percent of what my brain runs off and tries to do, I don’t need to tackle in that exact moment. If the brain is like a muscle, I’ll be better off resting it, being at peace. When a particular problem arises, I’ll immerse myself in it. Right now as we’re talking, I’d rather dedicate myself to being completely lost in the conversation and to being 100 percent focused on this as opposed to thinking about “Oh, when I brushed my teeth, did I do it the right way?

One of Mark Twain's more uplifting quotes maintains that small people always belittle your ambitions, while the great make you feel that you can be great.

Giants in Jeans Sonnet 31 Progress is a messy term, Which in theory means ascension. But in practice it means serving the wealthy, And to hell with the rest of the humans! When reckless monkeys start making rockets, They behave like some fancy junkie. When nuts and bolts hypnotize the apes, Equity, justice and honor feel secondary. Traditions have been ruling human behavior, Now technology has cast a spell on society. Just like mindless traditions are dangerous, Heartless technology is injurious to humanity. Traditions and technology both can be a boon, Yet as of today, they sustain a world of fools.

One option is to spend our lives ignoring the reality of life, like monkeys spellbound by the rattle-drum. We can focus on meaningless activities that keep us busy, help us pass the time, and prevent us from getting bored or distract us from introspecting and reflecting on life. The other option is to introspect and reflect on life. We can ask ourselves what shapes our decisions and where does our self-image come from. Why are we in certain situations like the petrified deer and in other situations like the dominant lion? We will realise that notions such as victim and villain and hero are all imaginary constructions, stories within our head and stories that we receive from society. In other words, they are maya, constructions to fortify ourselves from fear, subjective realities that make us feel powerful.

Monkeys in hats,” he said again, with growing heat. “That’s what I mean when I say, ‘I love you.’ I mean that you’re the woman I need beside me, all day, every day. I mean that I can’t imagine my life without you. I mean that when you hurt, it feels like a knife in me, cutting me from the inside out.” He paced in the tiny cabin, ricocheting back and forth like a bullet. “I mean that I hate the idea of anyone but me touching you. Just the thought makes me want to kill. I mean that I hate the idea of me touching anyone but you. I mean that when I see a goddamn monkey wearing a goddamn hat, I want to tell you about it. You and no one else.

One of the things I’ve observed about white folks who grew up well-to-do: they have a deep investment in the idea of merit, and there’s a special scorn, I’ve noticed, for the poor of their own kind. They may acknowledge that race plays a role in keeping people down; they may even be sympathetic to the plights and sufferings of certain marginalized groups—but white trash is trash for a reason. They can’t help but feel they deserve their position above the fat janitor or the rapidly aging waitress or the bashful handyman—If you were smart, you would’ve gone to college, they think. If you were ambitious, you would have done something with yourself. We worked harder, they think. Our parents instilled proper values, they think—and … well. We. Just. Have. Better. Genes. I think of Patches, the way his eyes grew softly, twenty-watt condescending when he found that I’d never been to high school, let alone university. “You’re self-taught!” he said, as if I were a talking monkey, and he showed his upper teeth in a way that he didn’t mean to. The sneer he’d inherited from generations of good breeding, not on purpose. I can picture the lips of Cammie, and I know she’ll be trying not to make that expression. But I’m afraid that the more she knows me, the more disappointed she’ll be. So I say nothing. The Guiding Star glides past Newcomerstown silent and aloof, and the ghosts of the Delaware tribes watch from the woods. Soon enough, we’ll be joining them in oblivion,

MONKEY MIND MONK MIND Overwhelmed by multiple branches Focused on the root of the issue Coasts in the passenger seat Lives intentionally and consciously Complains, compares, criticizes Compassionate, caring, collaborative Overthinks and procrastinates Analyzes and articulates Distracted by small things Disciplined Short-term gratification Long-term gain Demanding and entitled Enthusiastic, determined, patient Changes on a whim Commits to a mission, vision, or goal Amplifies negatives and fears Works on breaking down negatives and fears Self-centered and obsessed Self-care for service Multitasking Single-tasking Controlled by anger, worry, and fear Controls and engages energy wisely Does whatever feels good Seeks self-control and mastery Looks for pleasure Looks for meaning Looks for temporary fixes Looks for genuine solutions

This monograph presents personalism that counters reductionist perspectives of behaviourism, neuroscience, and cybernetics. It delves into the mysteries of the psyche and mind: awareness, consciousness, selfhood, introspection, empathy, and communication. From a phenomenological angle, a person comprises psyche, mind, and self; ontologically, body and mind; existentially, a unique and formidable blend of the sacred, profane, spiritual, material, temporary, and eternal. The psyche, with its awareness, relies on the brain. The mind, equipped with consciousness, reflects the occurrences within the psyche but operates independently of both. As a spiritual entity, the mind remains conscious even when the brain is split in two or rendered inactive in clinical death. The mind is inborn; the psyche develops later. The mind makes intuitive decisions that the psyche subsequently rationalizes. An artist’s mind prepares creations before articulation, while scientists often formulate intuitive theories before documenting them. The mind detects emotions before the psyche can express them, reacting swiftly in dangerous situations, while the psyche takes time to catch up. Our mind intuitively grasps abstract, symbolic meanings not only in formal concepts but also in metaphors, stories, jokes, and rhetorical questions. In theatre, the human audience may laugh upon comprehension, whereas an AI robot or monkey remains indifferent. Our thoughts and feelings are visceral, a quality that remains inaccessible to robots. Zbigniew Pleszewski, Ph.D., is an Adjunct Professor of Psychology at McGill University in Montreal. Prior to his appointment at McGill, he was actively engaged in clinical practice, research, and teaching throughout Europe (Clinical Psychology Department at Poznań University, Psychosomatic Medicine Department at Hamburg University), Japan (as a visiting professor at the Psychosomatic Medicine Department at Kyushu University), and Canada (Psychology Department at Concordia University). His research interests centre on long-term emotional functioning preceding heart attacks, markers of immunocompetence in hemodialyzed patients with and without depressive traits, as well as psychotherapy and hypnotherapy. His areas of teaching encompass psychosomatic medicine, personality, motivation, and the philosophical foundations of psychology. He has worked as a clinical psychologist on the Crisis Team in the Emergency Room at the Douglas Institute, a psychiatric teaching hospital in Montreal, for several years. He has also travelled extensively throughout Europe, the Middle East, Egypt, Asia, Australia, South America, and North America.

Mastering the Art of Breathing: The Secret Behind Powerful Performance Breathing is something we do every moment of our lives, yet most of us never think about how we breathe—or how we should breathe. For singers, actors, athletes, and even public speakers, breathing technique is one of the most essential skills to master. It’s not just about taking air in and out; it’s about using your breath to support your voice, improve stamina, control emotions, and enhance overall performance. Why Breathing Technique Matters Proper breathing allows you to control your voice better, project sound without strain, and maintain energy throughout long performances. It also helps reduce anxiety and tension, especially during high-pressure situations. In singing, breathing affects everything—from tone quality to pitch control. A well-supported breath can make your voice sound fuller, more stable, and more expressive. Without good breath control, even the most talented singers can fall short in performance. The Foundation: Diaphragmatic Breathing Also known as belly breathing or deep breathing, diaphragmatic breathing is the foundation of all professional vocal techniques. Instead of shallow breaths that only expand the chest, this method engages the diaphragm—an essential muscle located just below the lungs. Here’s how to practice it: Lie down or sit up straight with your shoulders relaxed. Place one hand on your chest and one on your stomach. Inhale slowly through your nose. Focus on expanding your belly, not your chest. Exhale gently through your mouth, keeping your chest still. Repeat for several minutes a day to train your body to breathe efficiently. When done correctly, the breath feels deeper and more satisfying, and you’ll notice increased breath capacity over time. Breath Control and Support Once you’ve mastered basic diaphragmatic breathing, it’s time to work on breath control—the ability to manage your air supply while speaking or singing. This doesn’t mean holding your breath; it means learning how to release air gradually and steadily. Try this simple exercise: Take a deep breath using the diaphragm. Blow out a steady stream of air while making a soft “sss” sound. Aim to keep the sound consistent and even, without sudden drops. This helps train your muscles to regulate airflow, which is crucial for long phrases or powerful notes in singing. Tips to Improve Your Breathing Technique Practice daily. Like any muscle, your diaphragm improves with regular use. Warm up before performances. Gentle breathing exercises prepare your body and calm your nerves. Stay hydrated. Dry vocal cords can affect breath efficiency and vocal tone. Watch your posture. An upright, relaxed posture allows your lungs to expand fully. Avoid shallow breaths. Focus on breathing into your lower lungs, not your chest. Conclusion Breathing may be natural, but breathing well is a skill—one that can transform your voice, boost your confidence, and elevate your performance. Whether you're an aspiring singer, a stage performer, or someone who wants to speak more clearly and confidently, investing time in mastering your breath is one of the most powerful things you can do.

This must be how cowboys feel at a rodeo,” Soph muttered. Zach snorted. “Or how Bella felt when Edward carried her up those trees.” “Does this make me your spider monkey?” “I guess it does.

Mammals seek the one-up position because serotonin makes it feel good. One study showed this by separating an alpha vervet monkey from his troop with a one-way mirror. (An alpha is the individual to whom group mates routinely defer.) The alpha monkey made the dominance gestures typical of his species, but his subordinates did not respond with the expected submission gestures because the one-way mirror blocked their view of him. The alpha got agitated and his serotonin level fell. Each day the experiment continued, his serotonin kept dropping and his agitation grew. He needed their submission to keep up his serotonin.

Now I hope I’m not trying to dress up a tantrum as an epiphany here, but I felt trapped, that I had no way back to nature, nature like the sky, nature like the sky inside, there was no way to breathe, to be a human. Suddenly I felt I had to scramble to have access to natural conditions, in one jarring moment I felt the g-force of the rapid journey from hunter-gatherer to hunted and gathered. No wonder people hanker after animalism and raw thrills. No wonder people go dogging, hot real breath on a windscreen, torch lights and head lights searching, huddled strangers clutching in the dark for the piercing relief of orgasm. No wonder people use porn, hunched over a laptop, grasping and breathless, serious and dutiful like a zealous attendant clerk at a futile task. From this form of escape I am not long exempt. I usually laugh afterwards. As soon as the biological objective has been reached I am ejected from the mindless spell. I look down on myself and sometimes enquire out loud, ‘What was that all about?’, like some monkey man coming to consciousness, and I glance back transcended, ‘Was that honestly your best idea at solving the way you feel? Now get me some tissues and a bible.

Tell me, what’s all this for? Monkeys! Where have they come from? What are they supposed to prove?” The Mentor sighed and slipped down off the windowsill. “There you go again, Andrei, asking me questions . . .” “No! I understand everything, I do!” Andrei said with sincere feeling, pressing his hands to his heart. “I only . . .” “Wait. There you go again, asking me questions to which I don’t have answers. You must understand that at last: I don’t have answers! The

the feeling of having in the middle of my body a ball of wool that quickly winds itself up, its innumerable threads pulling from the surface of my body to itself.

Fortunately, making friends in law school is easy because of the psychological bonding effects of group terror. In a famous social psychology experiment, researchers put a group of monkeys in the same cage with a group of lions. Monkeys and lions usually don’t socialize because the lions eat the monkeys, which causes hard feelings. Early in the experiment, it appeared events would follow this customary pattern as the lions began chasing the monkeys and the monkeys began bonking the lions on the heads with coconuts. At this point, the researchers inserted a Contracts professor into the cage who began conducting a Socratic dialogue about the doctrine of promissory estoppel. An amazing transformation occurred. The lions and monkeys immediately locked paws and began singing pub songs. Within a few minutes, the lions were giving the monkeys foot massages and the monkeys were encouraging the lions to get in touch with their inner cubs. Okay, that wasn’t a real experiment, but I’m confident it would work out that way. That’s what

When we win the award, I feel something. When we get the promotion, I feel something. When we break barriers, I feel something. But I also feels something when we are dying in the streets. When we are derided for our bodies even as white women try to imitate them. When feminism is limited to the needs of whiteness, or when Blackness is used for profit without acknowledging the brilliance of the creators. I feel something when a white woman mocks the body of Serena Williams by stuffing padding in her skirt and top. When First Lady Michelle Obama is called a monkey. When nine men and women are murdered in a church because they are Black.

Never shame your client,” Billy Corrigan admonished Duncan long ago, when he had been employed as a junior draftsman only a few weeks, after his first disastrous meeting with Meg and Hank Waxman. “Always make the client feel smart and creative. Let the client think he is a design partner whose ideas fascinate and inspire you.

Yeah, there’s a real surge in seeing people with your name pinned on ‘em hanging on your words, real big charge, but it’s never enough, you gotta have more and more and more and that power-monkey gets bigger and bigger till there’s nothing left of you. And you forget why you got started in the first place. You stop caring, stop feeling, stop really trying to help people, start using ‘em... I’ll take show biz over politics any time—nice white-collar job keeps your hands clean.

In his 1961 story about the Sneetches, Dr. Seuss introduced us to two groups of Sneetches, one with stars on their bellies and the other with none. The ones without stars wanted desperately to get stars so they could feel like they fit in. They were willing to go to extreme lengths and pay larger and larger sums of money simply to feel like they were part of a group. But only Sylvester McMonkey McBean, the man whose machine puts "stars upon thars," profited from the Sneetches' desire to fit in.

Robert De Niro once said he loved acting because you got to live other lives without the consequences. I lived a new life every night. Each evening you're a new man in a new town with all of life and all of life's possibilities spread out before you. For much of my life, I'd vainly sought to re-create this feeling........ every single.... day. Perhaps it's the curse of the imaginative mind. Or perhaps it's just the "running" in you. You simply can't stop imagining other worlds, other loves, other places than the one you are comfortably settled in at any given moment, the one holding all your treasures Those treasures can seem so easily made grey by the vast open and barren spaces of the creative mind. Of course, there is but only one life. Nobody likes that. . . but there's just one. And we're lucky to have it. God bless us and have mercy on us that we have the understanding and the abilities to live it. . . . and know that "the possibility of everything" is just "nothing" dressed up in a monkey suit . . . . and I had the best monkey suit in town.

often feels like our thoughts have minds of their own, controlling us and how we feel. Thinking is necessary for solving problems, analyzing, making decisions, and planning, but in between the times of proactive mental endeavors, the mind roams like a wild monkey, dragging you through the brambles of rumination and negativity. Your constant inner dialog distracts you from what is happening around you, right here and now. It causes you to miss valuable experiences and sabotages the joy of the present moment. Absurdly, we assume

A thousand "tells" were broadcast every minute: a tic, a wince, a smell, a shadow, a draft, a flick of the hand, a door ajar. The human senses experienced them all. The human brain registered them. The human monkey mind, clamoring with the shouting littles of life, was lucky if it recognized one or two. The message from the gestalt trickled down in intuition, gut feelings, geese walking on one's grave, deja vu.

Any dictatorship takes a psychological toll on its subjects. If you are treated as an untrustworthy person-a potential slacker, drug addict, or thief-you may begin to feel less trust worthy yourself. If you are constantly reminded of your lowly position in the social hierarchy, whether by individual managers or by a plethora of impersonal rules, you begin to accept that unfortunate status. To draw for a moment from an entirely different corner of my life, that part of me still attached to the biological sciences, there is ample evidence that animals-rats and monkeys, for example-that are forced into a subordinate status within their social systems adapt their brain chemistry accordingly, becoming "depressed" in humanlike ways. Their behavior is anxious and withdrawn; the level of serotonin (the neurotransmitter boosted by some antidepressants) declines in their brains. And-what is especially relevant here-they avoid fighting even in self-defense. Humans are, of course, vastly more complicated; even in situations of extreme subordination, we can pump up our self-esteem with thoughts of our families, our religion, our hopes for the future. But as much as any other social animal, and more so than many, we depend for our self-image on the humans immediately around us-to the point of altering our perceptions of the world so as to fit in with theirs. My guess is that the indignities imposed on so many low-wage workers - the drug tests, the constant surveillance, being "reamed out" by managers - are part of what keeps wages low. If you're made to feel unworthy enough, you may come to think that what you're paid is what you are actually worth. It is hard to imagine any other function for workplace authoritarianism. Managers may truly believe that, without their unremitting efforts, all work would quickly grind to a halt. That is not my impression. While I encountered some cynics and plenty of people who had learned to budget their energy, I never met an actual slacker or, for that matter, a drug addict or thief. On the contrary, I was amazed and sometimes saddened by the pride people took in jobs that rewarded them so meagerly, either in wages or in recognition. Often, in fact, these people experienced management as an obstacle to getting the job done as it should be done.

Like most humanoids, I am burdened with what the Buddhists call the “monkey mind”—the thoughts that swing from limb to limb, stopping only to scratch themselves, spit and howl. From the distant past to the unknowable future, my mind swings wildly through time, touching on dozens of ideas a minute, unharnessed and undisciplined. This in itself is not necessarily a problem; the problem is the emotional attachment that goes along with the thinking. Happy thoughts make me happy, but—whoop!—how quickly I swing again into obsessive worry, blowing the mood; and then it’s the remembrance of an angry moment and I start to get hot and pissed off all over again; and then my mind decides it might be a good time to start feeling sorry for itself, and loneliness follows promptly. You are, after all, what you think. Your emotions are the slaves to your thoughts, and you are the slave to your emotions.

My naked eyes see the naked truth,” Diablo began. “And the naked truth is that life is an adventure in the imagination of God, Providence at play, and to the extent that we release control, we experience grace. It is not a coincidence that the more you accept the flow of life, the more that life will flow through you. And that the minute you close your heart, the instant you presume to protect yourself from hurt or heartache, or the moment you try to control the insecurity of life with routine and structure, you have already lost exactly that which you are trying to protect. Your heart goes hard, your life goes stagnant, and Spirit will burn you with a thousand sufferings until you sit in your sacred fire and wake up to the naked truth that you are not in control of your life. This is the truth that is so fretfully foreign to common sense. You are a temporarily stable matrix of energetic probabilities, a spiritual synapse in the mind of God, and that’s all. This is no more your life than it is mine. It’s an experience to behold, but never to hold.” Diablo paused, seeking summation, feeling foolish in his nakedness, another hairy monkey squawking all the answers. “Anyway, the trick is simply this: No matter what happens, keep your heart open. Wide open. The heart is made of love, and love is indestructible, and only the arrogance of ego would presume that it requires protection. To open your heart is to reduce your ego, and this is the only magic that is ever required to experience the naked truth.