My Field Of Inquiry Quotes

The past and the present are within my field of inquiry, but what a man may do in the future is a hard question to answer.

Poirot looked at me meditatively. “You have an extraordinary effect on me, Hastings. You have so strongly the flair in the wrong direction that I am almost tempted to go by it! You are that wholly admirable type of man, honest, credulous, honourable, who is invariably taken in by any scoundrel. You are the type of man who invests in doubtful oil fields, and non-existent gold mines. From hundreds like you, the swindler makes his daily bread. Ah, well—I shall study this Commander Challenger. You have awakened my doubts.” “My dear Poirot,” I cried, angrily. “You are perfectly absurd. A man who has knocked about the world like I have—” “Never learns,” said Poirot, sadly. “It is amazing—but there it is.” “Do you suppose I’d have made a success of my ranch out in the Argentine if I were the kind of credulous fool you make out?” “Do not enrage yourself, mon ami. You have made a great success of it—you and your wife.” “Bella,” I said, “always goes by my judgement.” “She is as wise as she is charming,” said Poirot. “Let us not quarrel my friend. See, there ahead of us, it says Mott’s Garage. That, I think, is the garage mentioned by Mademoiselle Buckley. A few inquiries will soon give us the truth of that little matter.

Since I began meditating in 1979 (steadily, if not as regularly as intended), I have been a successful songwriter devoted to the greatest good, with my creative ego in service of the whole. Interestingly, I can’t recall any “writer’s block,” ever. Through a sustained channel of appreciative inquiry into the human and Divine, I’m flooded with ideas. (All the more reason to sit quiet, to bathe in the Akashic realm, in universal mind.) If anything, the number of song fragments and essay themes streaming in require more time and consideration than there are hours in a given day or week. This creative abundance is a great joy and, only sometimes, a burden.

I sense my own place in the rhythm of the seasons, from seed time to harvest, the falling leaves and the stillness of winter. Some tasks are, perhaps, uniquely mine, not shared by other dwellers of the field and the forest. I can cherish the fragile beauty of the first trillium against the dark moss, and I can mourn its passing. I can know the truth of nature and serve its good, as a faithful steward. I can be still before the mystery of the holy, the vastness of the starry heavens and the grandeur of the moral law. That task may be uniquely mine. Yet even the bee, pollinating the cucumber blossoms, has its own humble, unique task. Though distinct in my own way, I yet belong, deeply, within the harmony of nature. There is no experiential given more primordial than that.

Such is the lot of the knight that even though my patrimony were ample and adequate for my support, nevertheless here are the disturbances which give me no quiet. We live in fields, forests, and fortresses. Those by whose labors we exist are poverty-stricken peasants, to whom we lease our fields, vineyards, pastures, and woods. The return is exceedingly sparse in proportion to the labor expended. Nevertheless the utmost effort is put forth that it may be bountiful and plentiful, for we must be diligent stewards. I must attach myself to some prince in the hope of protection. Otherwise every one will look upon me as fair plunder. But even if I do make such an attachment hope is beclouded by danger and daily anxiety. If I go away from home I am in peril lest I fall in with those who are at war or feud with my overlord, no matter who he is, and for that reason fall upon me and carry me away. If fortune is adverse, the half of my estates will be forfeit as ransom. Where I looked for protection I was ensnared. We cannot go unarmed beyond to yokes of land. On that account, we must have a large equipage of horses, arms, and followers, and all at great expense. We cannot visit a neighboring village or go hunting or fishing save in iron. Then there are frequently quarrels between our retainers and others, and scarcely a day passes but some squabble is referred to us which we must compose as discreetly as possible, for if I push my claim to uncompromisingly war arises, but if I am too yielding I am immediately the subject of extortion. One concession unlooses a clamor of demands. And among whom does all this take place? Not among strangers, my friend, but among neighbors, relatives, and those of the same household, even brothers. These are our rural delights, our peace and tranquility. The castle, whether on plain or mountain, must be not fair but firm, surrounded by moat and wall, narrow within, crowded with stalls for the cattle, and arsenals for guns, pitch, and powder. Then there are dogs and their dung, a sweet savor I assure you. The horsemen come and go, among them robbers, thieves, and bandits. Our doors are open to practically all comers, either because we do not know who they are or do not make too diligent inquiry. One hears the bleating of sheep, the lowing of cattle, the barking of dogs, the shouts of men working in the fields, the squeaks or barrows and wagons, yes, and even the howling of wolves from nearby woods. The day is full of thought for the morrow, constant disturbance, continual storms. The fields must be ploughed and spaded, the vines tended, trees planted, meadows irrigated. There is harrowing, sowing, fertilizing, reaping, threshing: harvest and vintage. If the harvest fails in any year, then follow dire poverty, unrest, and turbulence.

I pull lightly on its soft silky ears, smooth down its thick fur, and distract myself so thoroughly that it’s only after quite a while that I sense eyes on me and look around to see that everyone has fallen silent and is staring at me. “Allora?” Luca says, a mocking edge to his voice. “Vieni con me, Violetta?” That can’t mean what I think it means. My heart catches in my throat. The cat, realizing that I’ve been distracted, jumps down from the wall, landing with an audible thud, and pads off through the gate to chase food for its dinner. Poor field mice, I think ruefully. Between the owl and the cat, they’ll have a miserable night of it. Then I look at Luca, and have the horrible suspicion that I’m a mouse and he’s the cat, playing with me, letting me run away and then reeling me back in. His eyebrows are raised, his mouth quirked in an amused smile of inquiry. “Sorry,” I say, not to him but to Kelly and Kendra. “I missed all of that.” “Luca’s going to take you back to the villa,” Kendra says briskly. “’Cause we can’t all get in the jeep.” I panic. Stone-cold panic, bringing out sweat on my palms. I can’t be alone with him. This isn’t fair. “Kelly’s coming with us too, right?” I say overloudly. “It’ll be nicer than sitting under Paige’s feet.” Luca nods his head sideways, and for a moment I don’t get why. Then I do, and I can’t breathe. He’s indicating the line of Vespas parked by the gatepost. He didn’t come in his car. He came on a Vespa. I’m going to ride back home on his scooter. This is not happening.

The border world of Rupe, implying as much refinement as the brevity of its name, was a cornucopia of various ore production. It's decadent display of brown tones and endless fields of dirt housed my next pointless inquiry.

I have just initiated a new public field of research which I call: Abrahamology. It is the same discipline that I have been working on, however, this is the first time I am announcing the existence of this platform for the large amount of information and body of knowledge that I was able to generate so far. My motivation is driven by it and for eventually making this theoretical construct stand alongside other disciplines of research, however, using an Islamic (i.e., Strict & Uncompromising Abrahamic Orthodoxy) lens of interpretation. To establish it as a genuine field of study is therefore the path which will mark my future endeavors while presenting, advancing, scrutinizing and validating my assertions. There are no tools of Gematria, Philosophy, Kabbalah, Shamanism, Esotery, Gnosticism, Proselytization, or Synchronicity used, but rather the methods of inquiry which are found in Observation, Useful Knowledge, Debates, Discussions, Mathematics, Alternative (alongside Academia), Science and Reason are those which are utilized.

The alien abduction field is a new one, and it deserves a broad and systematic multi-disciplinary inquiry. It is my hope that, if nothing else, this book will encourage at least some of the skeptics who have criticized my methods and hypotheses to immerse themselves in the primary data of this field, namely the experiences of those who have undergone the abduction encounters, and draw their own conclusions about what is taking place here and what it might mean for the human future.

Dean Martin, and Sammy Davis Jr. The cool kids of the 1960s invited the old man who had been cool before they knew cool was cool to join them in a musical romp that nobody took particularly seriously. Crosby enjoys himself. He has nothing at stake, since he’s not the star who has to carry the film. He’s very casual, and appears to be ad-libbing all his lines in the old Road tradition with a touch of W. C. Fields’s colorful vocabulary thrown in: “You gentlemen find my raiment repulsive?” he asks Sinatra and Martin when they object to his character’s lack of chic flash in clothing. Crosby plays a clever con man who disguises himself as square, and his outfits reflect a conservative vibe in the eyes of the cats who are looking him over. The inquiry leads into a number, “Style,” in which Sinatra and Martin put Crosby behind closet doors for a series of humorous outfit changes, to try to spruce him up. Crosby comes out in a plaid suit with knickers and then in yellow pants and an orange-striped shirt. Martin and Sinatra keep on singing—and hoping—while Crosby models a fez. He finally emerges with a straw hat, a cane, and a boutonniere in his tuxedo lapel, looking like a dude. In his own low-key way, taking his spot in the center, right between the other two, Crosby joins in the song and begins to take musical charge. Sinatra is clearly digging Crosby, the older man he always wanted to emulate.*17 Both Sinatra and Martin are perfectly willing to let Crosby be the focus. He’s earned it. He’s the original that the other two wanted to become. He was there when Sinatra and Martin were still kids. He’s Bing Crosby! The three men begin to do a kind of old man’s strut, singing and dancing perfectly together (“…his hat got a little more shiny…”). The audience is looking at the three dominant male singers of the era from 1940 to 1977. They’re having fun, showing everyone exactly not only what makes a pro, not only what makes a star, but what makes a legend. Three great talents, singing and dancing about style, which they’ve all clearly got plenty of: Frank Sinatra, Bing Crosby, and Dean Martin in Robin and the 7 Hoods

trial and error. Other experimenters recorded the visual fields of target subjects exposed to the color red. Trainees who learned, through feedback, to approximate that same neural activity reported seeing red in their mind’s eye. Since those days, the field had shifted from visual learning to emotional conditioning. The big grant money was going to desensitizing people with PTSD. DecNef and Connectivity Feedback were being touted as treatments to all kinds of psychiatric disorders. Marty Currier worked on clinical applications. But he was also pursuing a more exotic side-hustle. “Why not?” I told my wife. And so we volunteered in her friend’s experiment. IN THE RECEPTION AREA OF CURRIER’S LAB, Aly and I chuckled over the entrance questionnaire. We would be among the second wave of target subjects, but first we had to pass the screening. The questions disguised furtive motives. HOW OFTEN DO YOU THINK ABOUT THE PAST? WOULD YOU RATHER BE ON A CROWDED BEACH OR IN AN EMPTY MUSEUM? My wife shook her head at these crude inquiries and touched a hand to her smile. I read the expression as clearly as if we were wired up together: The investigators were welcome to anything they discovered inside her, so long as it didn’t lead to jail time. I’d given up on understanding my own hidden temperament a long time ago. Lots of monsters inhabited my sunless depths, but most of them were nonlethal. I did badly want to see my wife’s answers, but a lab tech prevented us from comparing questionnaires. DO YOU USE TOBACCO? Not for years. I didn’t mention that all my pencils were covered with bite marks. HOW MUCH ALCOHOL DO YOU DRINK A WEEK? Nothing for me, but my wife confessed to her nightly Happy Hour, while plying the dog with poetry. DO YOU SUFFER FROM ANY ALLERGIES? Not unless you counted cocktail parties. HAVE YOU EVER EXPERIENCED DEPRESSION? I didn’t know how to answer that one. DO YOU PLAY A MUSICAL INSTRUMENT? Science. I said I might be able to find middle C on a piano, if they needed it. Two postdocs took us into the fMRI room. These people had way more cash to throw around than any astrobiology team anywhere. Aly was having the same thoughts