Orioles Quotes

Tomber amoureux. To fall in love. Does it occur suddenly or gradually? If gradually, when is the moment “already”? I would fall in love with a monkey made of rags. With a plywood squirrel. With a botanical atlas. With an oriole. With a ferret. With a marten in a picture. With the forest one sees to the right when riding in a cart to Jaszuny. With a poem by a little-known poet. With human beings whose names still move me. And always the object of love was enveloped in erotic fantasy or was submitted, as in Stendhal, to a “cristallisation,” so it is frightful to think of that object as it was, naked among the naked things, and of the fairy tales about it one invents. Yes, I was often in love with something or someone. Yet falling in love is not the same as being able to love. That is something different.

Bend down, bend down. Excess is the only ease, so bend. The sun is in the tree. Put your mouth on mine. Bend down beam & slash, for Dread is dreamed-up-scenes of what comes after death. Is being fled from what bends down in pain. The elbow bends in the brain, lifts the cup. The worst is yet to dream you up, so bend down the intrigue you dreamed. Flee the hayneedle in the brain's tree. Excess allures by leaps. Stars burn clean. Oriole bitches and gleams. Dread is the fear of being less forever. So bend. Bend down and kiss what you see.

The oriole entered the capital of dawn. The sword of his song closed the sad bed. Everything forever ended.

From oriole to crow, note the decline In music. Crow is realist. But, then, Oriole, also, may be realist.

Someday you'll be as old as I. People will say the same. 'Oh, no,' they'll say, 'those vultures were never hummingbirds, those owls were never orioles, those parrots were never bluebirds!" One day you'll be like me!

Orioles kept making their clear three-note calls, stopping each time just long enough to let the countryside suck in the moist fluting sounds down to the last vibration.

Two yellow orioles sing under emerald willows One line of White Egrets ascends clear skies Window frames Western riged snow of a thousand autumns Door moors Eastern Wu a boat of ten-thousand li

For the first time in a long while I was in the mood to accomplish something. I switched off the TV and pulled out the Oriole epilepsy drug ads and spread them over my desk. Then I picked up my red pen and went to work.

La vida es dos pasos adelante y uno atrás.

I've recovered my tenderness by long looking; I'm a Socrates of small fury. The waves bends with the fish. I'm taught As water teaches stone. Believe me, extremest oriole, I can hear light on a dry day. The world is where we fling it; I'm leaving where I am.

Mama used to tell us a story about a cicada sitting high in a tree. It chirps and drinks in dew, oblivious to the praying mantis behind it. The mantis arches up its front leg to stab the cicada, but it doesn't know an oriole perches behind it. The bird stretches out its neck to snap up the mantis for a midday meal, but its unaware of the boy who's come into the garden with a net. Three creatures—the cicada, the mantis and the oriole—all coveted gains without being aware of the greater and inescapable danger that was coming.

She especially liked my bedside lamp, which had a five-sided porcelain shade. Unlit, the shade seemed like bumpy ivory. Lit, each panel came to life with the image of a bird: a blue jay, a cardinal, wrens, an oriole, and a dove. Kathleen turned it off and on again, several times. "How does it do that?" "The panels are called lithophanes." I knew because I'd asked my father about the lamp, years ago. "The porcelain is carved and painted. You can see it if you look inside the shade." "No," she said. "It's magic. I don't want to know how it's done.

the rest are secrets save for oriole which is a color in the afterlife

Life on board the Oriole exemplified the old-time saying: “Whose bread I eat, his song I sing

Quote is taken from Chapter 1: Since Etta could log in her rare Baltimore oriole sighting, she decided she’d had enough birding for one day. It was just a fun hobby, not an obsession.

Wow,’ said Eddie. Oriole had revealed the secret of her necklace to him many times in the past, in exactly these terms, following the script of the tour she conducted for visitors through a fragmentary scale model of her vanished life.

A VISIT TO QIANTANG LAKE IN SPRING Gushan Temple is to the north, Jiating pavilion west, The water's surface now is calm, the bottom of the clouds low. In several places, the first orioles are fighting in warm trees, By every house new swallows peck at spring mud. Disordered flowers have grown almost enough to confuse the eye, Bright grass is able now to hide the hooves of horses. I most love the east of the lake, I cannot come often enough Within the shade of green poplars on White Sand Embankment.

The large strings hummed like rain, The small strings whispered like a secret, Hummed, whispered—and then were intermingled Like a pouring of large and small pearls into a plate of jade. We heard an oriole, liquid, hidden among flowers. We heard a brook bitterly sob along a bank of sand. . . . By the checking of its cold touch, the very string seemed broken As though it could not pass; and the notes, dying away Into a depth of sorrow and concealment of lament, Told even more in silence than they had told in sound. . . . A silver vase abruptly broke with a gush of water, And out leapt armored horses and weapons that clashed and smote— And before she laid her pick down, she ended with one stroke, And all four strings made one sound, as of rending silk.

One thing in the school was captivating, lovely. Pictures of birds. Rose didn’t know if the teacher had climbed up and nailed them above the blackboard, too high for easy desecration, if they were her first and last hopeful effort, or if they dated from some earlier, easier time in the school’s history. Where had they come from, how had they arrived there, when nothing else did, in the way of decoration, illustration? A red-headed woodpecker; an oriole; a blue jay; a Canada goose. The colors clear and long-lasting. Backgrounds of pure snow, of blossoming branches, of heady summer sky. In an ordinary classroom they would not have seemed so extraordinary. Here they were bright and eloquent, so much at variance with everything else that what they seemed to represent was not the birds themselves, not those skies and snows, but some other world of hardy innocence, bounteous information, privileged lightheartedness. No stealing from lunch pails there; no slashing coats; no pulling down pants and probing with painful sticks; no fucking; no Franny.

Facing Wine Never refuse wine. I'm telling you, people come smiling in spring winds: peach and plum like old friends, their open blossoms scattering toward me, singing orioles in jade-green trees, and moonlight probing gold winejars. Yesterday we were flush with youth, and today, white hair's an onslaught. Bramble's overgrown Shih-hu Temple, and deer roam Ku-su Terrace ruins: it's always been like this, yellow dust choking even imperial gates closed in the end. If you don't drink wine, where are those ancient people now?

World Series MVP is a unique individual honor because with one exception—Bobby Richardson won 1960 World Series MVP honors for the Yankees, but the Pittsburgh Pirates won the Series that year—by virtue of winning the award you guarantee your teammates have won a ring.

Orioles fought with tigers, blue jays battled against angels, bear cubs warred with giants, and none of it made any sense. A baseball player was a man, and yet once he joined a team he was turned into an animal, a mutant being, or a spirit who lived in heaven next to God. According

Spring, in Brittany, is milder than spring in Paris, and bursts into flower three weeks earlier. The five birds that herald its appearance—the swallow, the oriole, the cuckoo, the quail, and the nightingale—arrive with the breezes that refuge in the bays of the Armorican peninsula.[28] The earth is covered over with daisies, pansies, jonquils, daffodils, hyacinths, buttercups, and anemones, like the wastelands around San Giovanni of Laterano and the Holy Cross of Jerusalem in Rome. The clearings are feathered with tall and elegant ferns; the fields of gorse and broom blaze with flowers that one may take at first glance for golden butterflies. The hedges, along which strawberries, raspberries, and violets grow, are adorned with hawthorn, honeysuckle, and brambles whose brown, curving shoots burst forth with magnificent fruits and leaves. All the world teems with bees and birds; hives and nests interrupt the child’s every footstep. In certain sheltered spots, the myrtle and the rose-bay flourish in the open air, as in Greece; figs ripen, as in Provence; and every apple tree, bursting with carmine flowers, looks like the big bouquet of a village bride.

Birds were what became of dinosaurs. Those mountains of flesh whose petrified bones were on display at the Museum of Natural History had done some brilliant retooling over the ages and could now be found living in the form of orioles in the sycamores across the street. As solutions to the problem of earthly existence, the dinosaurs had been pretty great, but blue-headed vireos and yellow warblers and white-throated sparrows - feather-light, hollow-boned, full of song were even greater. Birds were like dinosaurs' better selves. They had short lives and long summers. We all should be so lucky as to leave behind such heirs.

To hear an Oriole sing May be a common thing — Or only a divine. It is not of the Bird Who sings the same, unheard, As unto Crowd — The Fashion of the Ear Attireth that it hear In Dun, or fair — So whether it be Rune, Or whether it be none Is of within. The "Tune is in the Tree —" The Skeptic — showeth me — "No Sir! In Thee!

It’s one thing to win a game with a base hit, or to save a game by pitching a scoreless ninth ... it’s something altogether different to save our National Pastime by day in and day out showing up with the joy and passion of a kid playing Little League and the determined attitude and work ethic of a consummate professional bent on doing one thing and one thing only: his job.

Even the judge who ruled in Wilkes’s case that general warrants were invalid found fame and admiration in America. Soon after his decision in Wilkes’s case, Lord Chief Justice Pratt inherited the title Lord Camden. As in Camden, New Jersey. And Camden, South Carolina. And the B&O Railroad’s Camden Station, on whose rail yards was later built the home of the Baltimore Orioles—Camden Yards.

It begins with light which seeps into those ready vessels, marigold and dandelion, rises with the sap to richen forsynthia and veiled acacia. The heads of girls bending over bowls of lemons are silkened with that corn- silk color or helmeted with sun, and all that maiden hair is braided with the burn of wheatfields rippling in a wind. Gold is hammered out of yellow orchards and out of August noons, enough to feed the fur of lions or gild a tree of orioles. Enough to ransom princes of the sun god's lineage and fashion for the boy king's somber journey, a treasure house of toys, a bright death mask." - Gold

When I was a kid, my parents were very careful about who was “acceptable” as my heroes if you will, because they didn’t want me being influenced by athletes who lacked morals. Cal Ripken and Dale Murphy were at the top of my mom’s list of players she felt were good role models, so of course I was a diehard fan of both those guys.

From the pleasure podium of Ali Qapu, beyond the enhanced enclosure, the city spread itself towards the horizon. Ugly buildings are prohibited in Esfahan. They go to Tehran or stay in Mashhad. Planters vie with planners to outnumber buildings with trees. Attracting nightingales, blackbirds and orioles is considered as important as attracting people. Maples line the canals, reaching towards each other with branches linked. Beneath them, people meander, stroll and promenade. The Safavids' high standards generated a kind of architectural pole-vaulting competition in which beauty is the bar, and ever since the Persians have been imbuing the most mundane objects with design. Turquoise tiles ennoble even power stations. In the meadow in the middle of Naghshe Jahan, as lovers strolled or rode in horse-drawn traps, I lay on my back picking four-leafed clovers and looking at the sky. There was an intimacy about its grandeur, like having someone famous in your family. The life of centuries past was more alive here than anywhere else, its physical dimensions unchanged. Even the brutal mountains, folded in light and shadows beyond the square, stood back in awe of it. At three o'clock, the tiled domes soaked up the sunshine, transforming its invisible colours to their own hue, and the gushing fountains ventilated the breeze and passed it on to grateful Esfahanis. But above all was the soaring sky, captured by this snare of arches.(p378)

E se ao menos essa ilusão da Cidade tornasse feliz a totalidade dos seres que a mantêm... Mas não! Só uma estreita e reluzente casta goza na Cidade os gozos especiais que ela cria. O resto, a escura, imensa plebe, só nela sofre, e com sofrimentos especiais que só nela existem! Deste terraço, junto a esta rica Basílica consagrada ao Coração que amou o Pobre e por ele sangrou, bem avistamos nós o lôbrego casario onde a plebe se curva sob esse antigo opróbrio de que nem Religiões, nem Filosofias, nem Morais, nem a sua própria força brutal a poderão jamais libertar! Aí jaz, espalhada pela Cidade, como esterco vil que fecunda a Cidade. Os séculos rolam; e sempre imutáveis farrapos lhe cobrem o corpo, e sempre debaixo deles, através do longo dia, os homens labutarão e as mulheres chorarão. E com este labor e este pranto dos pobres, meu Príncipe, se edifica a abundância da Cidade! Ei-la agora coberta de muradas em que eles se não abrigam; armazenada de estofos, com que eles se não agasalham; abarrotada de alimentos, com que eles se não saciam! Para eles só a neve, quando a neve cai, e entorpece e sepulta as criancinhas aninhadas pelos bancos das praças ou sob os arcos das pontes de Paris... A neve cai, muda e branca na treva; as criancinhas gelam nos seus trapos; e a polícia, em torno, ronda atenta para que não seja perturbado o tépido sono daqueles que amam a neve, para patinar nos lagos do Bosque de Bolonha com peliças de três mil francos. Mas quê, meu Jacinto! A tua Civilização reclama insaciavelmente regalos e pompas, que só obterá, nesta amarga desarmonia social, se o Capital der ao Trabalho, por cada arquejante esforço, uma migalha ratinhada. Irremediável, é, pois, que incessantemente a plebe sirva, a plebe pene! A sua esfalfada miséria é a condição do “esplendor sereno da Cidade. Se nas suas tigelas fumegasse a justa ração de caldo – não poderia aparecer nas baixelas de prata a luxuosa porção de foie gras e túbaras que são o orgulho da Civilização. Há andrajos em trapeiras – para que as belas Madames d’Oriol, resplandecentes de sedas e rendas, subam, em doce ondulação, a escadaria da Ópera. Há mãos regeladas que se estendem, e beiços sumidos que agradecem o dom magnânimo de um sou – para que os Efrains tenham dez milhões no Banco de França, se aqueçam à chama rica da lenha aromática, e surtam de colares de safiras as suas concubinas, netas dos duques de Atenas. E um povo chora de fome, e da fome dos seus pequeninos – para que os Jacintos, em janeiro, debiquem, bocejando, sobre pratos de Saxe, morangos gelados em champanhe e avivados de um fio de éter! – E eu comi dos teus morangos, Jacinto! Miseráveis, tu e eu! Ele murmurou, desolado: – É horrível, comemos desses morangos...

The lawn was on an elevation with a view of fields and woods. Formed like a large teardrop of green, it had a gray elm at its small point, and the bark of the huge tree, dying of dutch blight, was purplish gray. Scant leaves for such a vast growth. An oriole’s nest, in the shape of a gray heart, hung from twigs. God’s veil over things makes them all riddles. If they were not all so particular, detailed, and very rich I might have more rest from them. But I am a prisoner of perception, a compulsory witness. They are too exciting. Meantime I dwell in yon house of dull boards. Herzog was worried about that elm. Must he cut it down? He hated to do it. Meanwhile the cicadas all vibrated a coil in their bellies, a horny posterior band in a special chamber. Those billions of red eyes from the enclosing woods looked out, stared down, and the steep waves of sound drowned the summer afternoon. Herzog had seldom heard anything so beautiful as this massed continual harshness.

The rules are: your house is a safe zone. School is a safe zone, but not the parking lot. Once you step out the door, it’s all fair game. You’re out if you get hit with a two-hand touch. And if you renege on your wish, your life is forfeit. Genevieve comes up with that last part and it gives me shivers. Trevor Pike shudders and says, “Girls are scary.” “No, girls in their family are scary,” Peter says, gesturing at Chris and Genevieve. They both smile, and in those smiles I see the family resemblance. Casting a sidelong glance at me, Peter says hopefully, “You’re not scary, though. You’re sweet, right?” Suddenly I remember something Stormy said to me. Don’t ever let him get too sure of you. Peter is very sure of me. As sure as a person could be. “I can be scary too,” I quietly say back, and he blanches. Then, to everyone else, I say, “Let’s just have fun with it.” “Oh, it’ll be fun,” John assures me. He puts his Orioles cap on his head and pulls the brim down. “Game on.” He catches my eye. “If you thought I was good at Model UN, wait till you see my Zero Dark Thirty skills.

Jučer sam kupio crveni ruž i nakarminio se jutros, obukao šlafruk i skuhao kafu. i znate što ću vam reći? Muškarci su nam, jaštaradi, bitni, al ne dajte, pobogu, da vas mjenjaju, savršene ste upravo takve kakve jeste. Ja želim jutros da budem poput Marlen Ditrich. Neki dan u Cirihu udje starija gospodja sa šeširom s perom u restoran, eh, drage moje, ona ima blizu devedeset i još uvijek čita novine sa onim najsitnijim slovima, a energija... Ona naprosto sija, na usnicama crveni ruž poput ovog moga, a obrvice iscrtala, ko zna koliko puta ih je obrisala pa ispočetka, al uspjela je. Banalan primjer za sve u životu: istrajnost, upornost, može bolje, idemo ispočetka. Pa šta ako vas je ostavio, pa šta ako je našao drugu, sretno mu, možda vam je učinio uslugu, i vas čeka bolji, samo nemojte da u tminu odbacite svoje oriole. Želim da sijate uvijek, da kad vas zagrlim osjetim da ste zadovoljne sobom, da ste jake, voljene,nježne i mirisne, da još maštate kao djevojčice, da osjećate ljubav kao da je prvi put. I ne, nemojte se mijenjati ni zbog koga, on ako vas voli, voljeće sve što jeste i sve što ćete tek biti. Ne gubite svoj sjaj, jer tek kad sijate onoliko, da kad udjete u prostoriju, stane vrijeme, tek onda ste posve svoje, Moje Muze, vile, dame, božice!

Hurry up!” everyone in the room seemed to shriek at the same time. It didn’t matter to us that all over Pittsburgh, in every house and in every bar, thousands of others were undoubtedly carrying out their own rituals, performing their own superstitions. Hats were turned backward and inside out, incantations spoken and sung, talismans rubbed and chewed and prayed to. People who had the bad fortune of arriving at their gathering shortly before the Orioles’ first run were treated like kryptonite and banished willingly to the silence of media-less dining rooms and bathrooms, forced to follow the game through the reactions of their friends and family. And every one of those people believed what we believed: that ours was the only one that mattered, the only one that worked. Ruthie fumbled through the pages. Johnson fouled one off. “Got it!” Ruthie called. She stood and held Dock Ellis’s picture high over her head, Shangelesa’s scribbled hearts like hundreds of clear bubbles through which her father could watch the fate of his teammates. “He’s no batter, he’s no batter!” Ruthie sang. Johnson grounded the next pitch to shortstop Jackie Hernandez, who threw to Bob Robertson at first, and the threat was over. We yelled until we were hoarse. We were raucous and ridiculous and unashamed, and I have no better childhood memory than the rest of that afternoon. Blass came back out for the ninth, heroically shrugging off his wobbly eighth and, with Ruthie still standing behind us, holding the program shakily aloft for the entirety of the inning, he induced a weak grounder from Boog Powell, an infield pop-up from Frank Robinson, and a Series-ending grounder to short from Rettenmund. For the second inning in a row, Hernandez threw to Robertson for the final out, and all of us (or those who were able) jumped from our seats just as Blass leaped into Robertson’s arms, straddling his teammate’s chest like a frightened acrobat. Any other year, Blass would have been named the Most Valuable Player, and his performance remains one of the most dominant by a pitcher in Series history: eighteen innings, two earned runs, thirteen strikeouts, just four walks, and two complete game victories. But this Series belonged to Clemente. To put what he did in perspective, no Oriole player had more than seven hits. Clemente had twelve, including two doubles, a triple and two homeruns. He was relentless and graceful and indomitable. He had, in fact, made everyone else look like minor leaguers. The rush

Presently Grandmother Jia appeared, seated, in solitary splendour, in a large palanquin carried by eight bearers. Li Wan, Xi-feng and Aunt Xue followed, each in a palanquin with four bearers. After them came Bao-chai and Dai-yu sharing a carriage with a splendid turquoise-coloured canopy trimmed with pearls. The carriage after them, in which Ying-chun, Tan-chun and Xi-chun sat, had vermilion-painted wheels and was shaded with a large embroidered umbrella. After them rode Grandmother Jia’s maids, Faithful, Parrot, Amber and Pearl; after them Lin Dai-yu’s maids, Nightingale, Snowgoose and Delicate; then Bao-chai’s maids, Oriole and Apricot; then Ying-chun’s maids, Chess and Tangerine; then Tan-chun’s maids, Scribe and Ebony; then Xi-chun’s maids, Picture and Landscape; then Aunt Xue’s maids, Providence and Prosper, sharing a carriage with Caltrop and Caltrop’s own maid, Advent; then Li Wan’s maids, Candida and Casta; then Xi-feng’s own maids, Patience, Felicity and Crimson, with two of Lady Wang’s maids, Golden and Suncloud, whom Xi-feng had agreed to take with her, in the carriage behind. In the carriage after them sat another couple of maids and a nurse holding Xi-feng’s little girl. Yet more carriages followed carrying the nannies and old women from the various apartments and the women whose duty it was to act as duennas when the ladies of the household went out of doors.

At this point, the argument that the Orioles are a fluke doesn’t hold water.

Despite the diversity of the constructions that other animals create—the pendulous baskets of oriole nests, the intricate dens of prairie dogs, or the decorated nests of bowerbirds—humans construct the broadest array of dwellings on Earth. Our words for “dwelling” point to this diversity: Palace, hovel, hogan, ranch house, croft. Tipi, chalet, duplex, kraal. Igloo, bungalow, billet, cabin.

Aquesta associació del moviment independentista a l'urna expressa una voluntat inequívocament democràtica: la independència com a resultat de la decisió de la ciutadania.

Governar bé és construir ponts, com ens recorda sempre Raül Romeva.

L'1 d'Octubre vam guanyar. Vam fer, entre tots, una cosa extraordinària. Vam vèncer l'Estat, ens vam reafirmar com a poble i vam posar una llavor que durarà generacions. És un episodi fundacional de la República Catalana, una jornada que ja és als llibres d'història i que ens obliga a tots, moralment i política.

El futur no pot ser una promesa o una qüestió de fe: el futur es construeix cada dia.

Joan Fuster té una frase que ens ha acompanyat sempre: «Tota política que no fem nosaltres, serà feta contra nosaltres».

Fem una crida a l'optimisme i l'empatia. No hi ha cap moviment polític al món que se n'hagi sortit des de la moral de derrota ni tancant-se en ell mateix. Nosaltres estem profundament convençuts que guanyarem, i volem fer-ho per posar la República Catalana al servei de tothom, no només dels que pensen com nosaltres. Escoltem i practiquem l'empatia. Expliquem-nos sense defallir. Plantem cara a les injustícies, defensem i exercim els nostres drets, siguem ferms amb els poderosos i amables amb els dèbils. No preguntem ningú d'on ve, sinó on vol anar. Fem de Catalunya un país exemplar.

No va ser el fet d'anar junts en una mateixa llista electoral allò que ens va unir. El que ens va unir va ser trobar un projecte amb sentit, on cadascú podia aportar coses concretes i on tothom era necessari. Aquest és el sentit que nosaltres donem a la unitat: identifiquem què podem fer plegats, i ho fem respectant la diversitat interna del moviment independentista. Perquè la diversitat, no en tenim cap dubte, és una de les nostres fortaleses.

Catalunya no està feta i acabada, és un país en construcció permanent, i ens necessita a tots.

El moviment independentista va convertir l'urna en la seva icona. Associar urna a independència era tant com associar independència a democràcia. En contrast amb altres expressions internacionals de moviments d'alliberament nacional de caràcter violent, l'eclosió del moviment independentista a Catalunya té l'urna i el vot com a referent.

Aquell dia els grans protagonistes van ser els 2,3 milions de ciutadans que van participar en la votació. L'operatiu policial massiu i la violència de la Guàrdia Civil i la Policia Nacional no van dissuadir la ciutadania, que va defensar, pacíficament però amb una gran determinació, les urnes i el dret a votar, protagonitzant un acte de desobediència civil com no s'havia vist mai.

Ho teníem tot en contra, començant per la raó de la força que l'Estat va decidir aplicar amb bel·ligerància. Tot en contra, excepte la força de la gent. Aquest és el reconeixement més explícit que, objectivament, es pot fer als dos milions llargs de persones que van votar l'1 d'Octubre. Sense aquest compromís hauria estat inviable seguir endavant. Fèiem allò que havíem promès. I la gent hi va ser.

I hear the oriole’s always-grieving voice, And the rich summer’s welcome loss I hear In the sickle’s serpentine hiss Cutting the corn’s ear tightly pressed to ear. And the short skirts of the slim reapers Fly in the wind like holiday pennants, The clash of joyful cymbals, and creeping From under dusty lashes, the long glance. I don’t expect love’s tender flatteries, In premonition of some dark event, But come, come and see this paradise Where together we were blessed and innocent. —Anna Akhmatova, “I hear the oriole’s always-grieving voice,” Poems. (Everyman's Library; 1 edition May 16, 2006)

Yeah, Kid Elberfeld, what a character he was. Kid Gleason was on the Detroit club about then, too. Another rugged little guy. Do you know that those guys actually tried to get hit with the ball when they were up at bat? They didn’t care. They had it down to a fine art, you know. They’d look like they were trying to get out of the way, but they’d manage to let the ball just nick them. Anything to get on base. That was all part of the game then. Kid Gleason used to be on that old Baltimore Oriole team in the 1890’s. You know, with Willie Keeler and McGraw and Dan Brouthers and Hughie Jennings, who later became our manager at Detroit.

Melody Oriole-2 von Peterswald,

I’ve never had a problem with Terry on this issue or any other. I’ve found him to be consistently competent, and as a leader, he is a consensus builder rather than an authoritarian. Since I’ve been up here and have been commander, he has always been respectful of my previous experience, always open to suggestions about how to do things better without getting defensive or competitive. He loves baseball, so there’s always a game on some laptop, especially when the Astros or the Orioles are playing. I’ve gotten used to the rhythm of the nine-inning

Or we of the tribe who delude ourselves into thinking the Orioles will one day win the World Series!

nature is very much a now-you-see-it, now-you-don’t affair. A fish flashes, then dissolves in the water before my eyes like so much salt. Deer apparently ascend bodily into heaven; the brightest oriole fades into leaves.

Tatum and Oriole and that group are by the pool but they aren’t my direct friends and I can’t join them without Stella, it would seem weird and they might be nice but they might also freeze me out the way Stella and I might freeze out one of them if she all of a sudden attached herself to us.

All sorts of cool things transpired while I worked on this book. For example: I learned a ton. Also, one day while my brain was overheating, a cardinal, a blue jay, and an oriole appeared near my windowsill—that’s all the eponymous birds of Major League Baseball teams. That never happens.

Mr Chamy performed splendid camouflage and went after them to recover his leaf at the earliest. He found himself upon the pavement beneath the Banyan tree of Orioles. Mr Oriole was in the prison and his followers must have crept behind the chameleon, he guessed that too. It strongly attaches Mr Chamy to sun himself in the day before an opportunity to steal surfaces in the darker hours. He paid enough heed to the consequence of his attacking anytime at the birds. Beyond all, it is that life which is most valuable to him but the next thing in order would be the golden leaf. The fearsome Orioles deprived him of it even though he'd earned it out of the tree. It forced him to think once in a while what if the leaf being golden logically went to golden Orioles. He kept suggesting many things to avoid the chaotic chase but his legs were stubborn to

Es ben significatiu que, fins i tot força més endavant, en un context llatí, la paraula oci (otium) sigui la no marcada, mentre que la paraula «negoci» es construeixi per negació de la primera (nec-otium). El que és normal, l'opció neutra i preferent, és disposar de lleure, de vacança, de temps lliure per poder viure amb plenitud, destinant aquest temps a la contemplació filosòfica o a la divina (el vacare deo medieval: 'dedicar-se a déu'). La negació d'aquest temps de qualitat, el neg-oci, ens allunya de la vida humana plena i ens apropa a la vida instintiva, mancada de sentit des d'un punt de vista humà, a la vida dels animals que, com les abelles, s'afanyen i s'afanyen en la feina sense cap consciència de la finitud de la pròpia existència.

You don't ask the sun why you orbit, you just orbit. You let the gravitational waves of the baseball season pull you in and you surrender yourself, happily.

Baseball taught me how to love. The game made sense to me, and spending time with it felt more like an obsessive relationship than a simple want.

HAVE; ONLY; POSITIVE; EXPECTATIONS”, es decir, ten sólo expectativas positivas.

You realize that the sleeping stadium is more beautiful at night, with the unshakable quietus rooting it to the earth. It rests like a graveyard--empty but throbbing all at once. With the pollution of light extinguished, maybe you even see the Dog Star blinking back at you.

We work our way back through the crowd. A few steps behind, holding Dad’s hand, I keep my eyes affixed to the back of his white polo shirt. The outline of his wallet is visible through his back pants pocket, stained into the old khakis. A hanky to wipe his brow creeps out of the other pocket. He clips his beeper tightly to his belt—it’s his post-work Sunday casual uniform. As we move faster through the horde, the sweat on our palms intensifies on the humid mid-Atlantic summer day. For a second, his grip slips and we become disconnected. I fall back a few feet as people aggressively pass by. I never lose sight of the man in the white shirt. Immediately Dad turns around, his face concerned but focused. He jogs back and grabs my hand tight, locking his big thumb and fingers around my wrist. He pulls me in. His other hand now sits across my shoulder, a protective hold. “Buddy, if we’re ever separated, just look for me there,” he says, pointing at a hot dog stand with a big, memorable Oriole bird logo. He pauses and looks me up and down. “But we won’t ever be separated.

Kulfi was beginning to feel a little tired of what she had been finding in the forest. She looked under a rock, by a tulip tree, along a stream. She needed a new ingredient, she thought, sniffing the air, something exciting and fresh to inspire her to an undiscovered dish, a new invention. She looked up into the sky. Already she had cooked a pigeon and a sparrow, a woodpecker, a hoopoe, a magpie, a shrike, an oriole, a Himalayan nightingale, a parrot … She had cooked a squirrel, a porcupine, a mongoose, all the wildfowl that could be found in those parts, the small fish in the stream, the round-shelled snails that crisscrossed the leaves with silver, the grasshoppers that leapt and jumped, landing with loud raindrop-like plops upon the foliage. Diligently, she searched for a new plant, a new berry, a new mushroom or lichen, fungus or flower, but everything about her looked familiar and dull. No new scents enlivened the air and she wandered farther and farther away.

Morning's Serenade by Stewart Stafford Stirred by a magpie's auction bids, I opened up our curtained eyelids, To pale dawn's reverential blinking, Beyond my lady's distant inkling. Anointed by the infant sun's rays, I stand in regal morning’s praise; Surveying virgin domain’s expanse, Before the hatchling public dance. The early-risen owl hoots carried far, The songbirds played off fading stars, Cockcrow drew in a loping red fox, Scattering fawns and sheep flocks. My lady spent, sports a drowsy crown, Her chest rises, then slowly down, Cityscape visions to last night's desire, Golden tresses tossed in oriole fire. To the kitchen, a connoisseur's start, A lover's labour, a chef's work of art, Crack avian treasures, new life's motif. Ground coffee, perfumed weekend relief. © Stewart Stafford, 2024. All rights reserved.

first spring ramble a wedge of geese pries the sky open shrew such a small death the certainty in the blackbird’s voice dark before dawn venturing into the impossible oriole’s voice summer afternoon the salamander basking in inattention shimmering lake how unimportant what’s important the scent of her unsent letters the ringing of faraway bells dusk in a field homeless among the skyscrapers autumn moon ever since we lost touch her cold hands northerly wind the runes of gulls’ footprints in the damp sand winter morning a sleepy genie rises from the coffee

Downy woodpecker.” “Northern mockingbird.” “Orchard oriole.” “Prairie warbler.” “Gyrfalcon.”“You’re making these up,” she said, poking him with her elbow. “No, I swear I’m not.” “Then birds are the best-named animals in the entire universe.

Unfortunately, nature is very much a now-you-see-it, now-you-don't affair. A fish flashes, then dissolves in the water before my eyes like so much salt. Deer apparently ascend bodily into heaven, the brightest oriole fades into leaves. These disappearances stun me into stillness and concentration; they say of nature that it conceals with a grand nonchalance, and they say of vision that it is a deliberate gift, ... For a week last September migrating red-winged blackbirds were feeding heavily down by the creek at the back of the house. One day I went out to investigate the racket: I walked up to a tree, an Osage orange, and a hundred birds flew away. They simply materialized out of the tree. I saw a tree, then a whisk of color, then a tree again. I walked closer and another hundred blackbirds took flight. Not a branch, not a twig budged: the birds were apparently weightless as well as invisible. Or, it was as if the leaves of the Osage orange had been freed from a spell in the form of red-winged blackbirds; they flew from the tree, caught my eye in the sky, and vanished. When I looked again at the tree the leaves had reassembled as if nothing had happened. Finally I walked directly to the trunk of the tree and a final hundred, the real diehards, appeared, spread, and vanished. How could so many hide in the tree without my seeing them? The Osage orange, unruffled, looked just as it had looked from the house, when three hundred red-winged blackbirds cried from its crown. I looked downstream where they flew, and they were gone. Searching, I couldn't spot one. I wandered downstream to force them to play their hand, but they'd crossed the creek and scattered. One show to a customer. These appearances catch at my throat; they are the free gifts, the bright coppers at the roots of trees.

It’s complacency,” says an agent who was on Obama’s detail. “They say we can make do with less.” Shutting down magnetometers as an event is about to start is shocking enough. But when Vice President Biden threw the opening pitch at the first Baltimore Orioles game of the season at Camden Yards on April 6, 2009, the Secret Service had not screened with magnetometers any of the more than forty thousand fans. Moreover, even though Biden’s scheduled attendance at the game had been announced beforehand, the vice president was not wearing a bulletproof vest under his navy sport shirt as he stood on the pitcher’s mound. According

contract. To get around this problem, the manager of the Orioles, Jack Dunn, adopted George and became his legal guardian. Young George’s relationship with Dunn led to him being given his famous name. One day Dunn brought George to the ballpark to show him the ropes. When the other players saw the new player, one remarked, “Well, here’s Jack’s newest babe.” Soon, all his teammates were calling him Babe.

Never refuse wine. I'm telling you, people come smiling in spring winds: peach and plum like old friends, their open blossoms scattering toward me, singing orioles in jade-green trees, and moonlight probing gold winejars.

Mussina was a brilliant high school pitcher in Montoursville, Pennsylvania, one town over from Williamsport, home of the Little League World Series. Milwaukee special assistant Doug Melvin was an Orioles scout then, and he saw Moose pitch and was blown away. Melvin said Mussina was an 18-year-old who pitched like he was 28. Moose had an advanced way of thinking about pitching. He saw it as a puzzle; Mussina has always been a puzzle guy, you know, crossword puzzles and such. He tried to think of the optimal way to keep hitters off-balance, to make them uncomfortable. With his pitching stuff and his keen mind, nobody in high school could touch him

At the top, I put the camera's viewfinder to my eye and slowly turned, the way my grandmother had taught me. From every vantage point something remarkable filled the screen- clusters of wild red columbine, fallen boulders forming geometric designs against the wall, crusty green lichen gnawing on rocks, a Baltimore oriole popping from a thicket of brush, and, at my feet, a grasshopper clinging to a stem of purple aster. I could spend a day here and barely scratch the surface. The sun felt warm on my shoulders as I bent down to capture the blossoms of yellow star grass, the feathery purple petals of spotted knapweed, and the lacy wings of two yellow jackets as they alighted on tiny white blossoms of Labrador tea. By the time I finished taking photos of a monarch butterfly resting on milkweed, I realized an hour had passed.

El aspecto clave del revenue management es la gestión de los precios, factor que, en principio, permite discriminar la demanda. Para poder determinar el éxito de la gestión de precios se puede utilizar el ratio de ingresos por habitación disponible (en inglés, RevPar, revenue per available room),

Learning to Speak" As a child running loose, I said it this way: Bird. Bird, a startled sound at field’s edge. the sound my mouth makes, pushing away the cold. So, at the end of this quiet afternoon, wanting to write the love poems I’ve never written, I turn from the shadow in the cottonwood and say blackbird, as if to you. There is the blackbird. Black bird, until its darkness is the darkness of a woman’s hair falling across my uptunred face. And I go on speaking into the night. The oriole, the flicker, the gold finch.