Patio Quotes

It seemed funny to me that the sunset she saw from her patio and the one I saw from the back steps was the same one. Maybe the two different worlds we lived in weren't so different. We saw the same sunset.

Can I see you outside for a second?" Kat glared at Hale, then walked to the patio doors and out onto the veranda. As Hale closed the door behind him, Kat heard Angus say, "Ooh, Mom and Dad are going to fight now.

Lo que mucha gente llama amar consiste en elegir una mujer y casarse con ella. La eligen, te lo juro, los he visto. Como si se pudiera elegir en el amor, como si no fuera un rayo que te parte los huesos y te deja estaqueado en la mitad del patio. Vos dirás que la eligen porque-la-aman, yo creo que es al vesre. A Beatriz no se la elige, a Julieta no se la elige. Vos no elegís la lluvia que te va a calar hasta los huesos cuando salís de un concierto.

and the sad notes floated out to the patio and hung in the trees like birds too tired to fly

A cold wind swept across the patio, causing me to shiver. Noah shrugged off his black leather jacket and tossed it around my shoulders. "How are you going to tutor me if you get fucking pneumonia?" I cocked an eyebrow. What an odd combination of romantic gesture and horribly crude wording.

If there are all different types of soul mates,” I told Harry one afternoon, when the two of us were sitting out on the patio with Connor, “then you are one of mine.” Harry was wearing a pair of shorts and no shirt. Connor was lying on his chest. He hadn’t shaved that morning, and his stubble was coming in. It had just the slightest gray patch under his chin. Looking at him with her, I realized how much they looked alike. Same long lashes, same pert lips. Harry held Connor to his chest with one hand and grabbed my free hand with the other. “I am absolutely positive that I need you more than I’ve ever needed another living soul,” he said. “The only exception being—” “Connor,” I said. We both smiled. For the rest of our lives, we would say that. The only exception to absolutely everything was Connor.

Qhuinn's eyes shifted away from his buddy--and just happened to measure the distance down to the stone patio below. Hmm . . . doing a swan dive onto all that slate might just get the images of those two out of his head... of course, it would also turn his brain into scrambled eggs, but really, was that such a bad thing?

Cómo si se pudiera elegir en el amor. Cómo si no fuera un rayo que te parte los huesos y te deja estaqueado en la mitad del patio... Vos no elegís la lluvia que te va a calar hasta los huesos cuando salís de un concierto

It was around that time that I started to believe that friendships could be written in the stars. “If there are all different types of soul mates,” I told Harry one afternoon, when the two of us were sitting out on the patio with Connor, “then you are one of mine.

No: What the heck happened? Or: Why did you go from nearly kissing me to tossing me across your yard and into the patio furniture?

believe that you've had most of your important memories by the time you're thirty. After that, memory becomes water overflowing into an already full cup. New experiences just don't register in the same way or with the same impact. I could be shooting heroin with the Princess of Wales, naked in a crashing jet, and the experience still couldn't compare to the time the cops chased us after we threw the Taylors' patio furniture into their pool in eleventh grade.

You think maybe if you just work harder and faster, you can hold off the chaos, but then one day you’re changing a patio light bulb with a five-year life span and you realize how you’ll only be changing this light maybe ten more times before you’ll be dead.

This is the Propylon." He waved toward a stone path lined with crumbling columns. "One of the main gates into the Olympic valley." "Rubble!" said Leo "And over there - " Frank pointed to a square foundation that looked like the patio for a Mexican restaurant - "is the Temple of Hera, one of the oldest structures here." "More rubble!" Leo said. "And that round bandstand-looking thing - that's the Philipeon, dedicated to Philip of Macedonia." "Even more rubble! First rate rubble!

I took Russian in high school,” Nathan said, climbing out of the pool. He’d decided to swim laps that afternoon instead of going to the gym. “Did you?” Harrison asked, grinning at him. “Yeah.” Nathan grabbed his towel from the little patio table and began dabbing at his face. “But the only thing I remember is, Mozhno li kopirovat vashi domashnie zodaneeye?” “Let me guess,” I said. “You just asked me where the bathroom is, right?” “No.” He scoffed, flicking his wet towel at me. “I was beyond that basic stuff. I took two years of it. Give me some credit.” “Then what does it mean?” I asked. “It means, ‘Can I copy your homework?

«Tenés derecho a ser feliz», nos decía La Tía Encarna desde su sillón en el patio. «La posibilidad de ser feliz también existe».

The Deliverator belongs to an elite order, a hallow subcategory. He's got esprit up to here. Right now, he is preparing to carry out his third mission of the night. His uniform is black as activated charcoal, filtering the very light out of the air. A bullet will bounce off its arachnofiber weave like a wren hitting a patio door, but excess perspiration wafts through it like a breeze through a freshly napalmed forest. Where his body has bony extremities, the suit has sintered armorgel: feels like gritty jello, protects like a stack of telephone books.

Vadim smiled. “I’m not meeting him. We’ll be friends.” Dan still didn’t say anything, just nodded, the smile still there, then turned and walked through the living room and onto the patio, all the way through the French windows. Looking out over the old orchard and the mountains when Vadim got to his side, reaching over to take Dan’s hand. Worth it. A thousand times. Any sacrifice, from the small ones to the big ones, and Dan turns his head, looking fully at him, while the smile grew. He didn’t need to say anything, didn’t have to voice the “I love you”. It was there, unsaid, yet outspoken. Fourteen years, they didn’t come cheap.

On game day, until five o'clock or so, the white desert light held off the essential Sunday gloom—autumn sinking into winter, loneliness of October dusk with school the next day—but there was always a long still moment toward the end of those football afternoons where the mood of the crowd turned and everything grew desolate and uncertain, onscreen and off, the sheet-metal glare off the patio glass fading to gold and then gray, long shadows and night falling into desert stillness, a sadness I couldn't shake off, a sense of silent people filing toward the stadium exits and cold rain falling in college towns back east.

I heard a noise on the back patio and opened the door. The rabbit was there in a black metal cage. It was big, not some fluffy little ball of fur, but a big, ugly rabbit. It stood on its hind legs and sniffed the air. “Yes, you smell that,” I told the rabbit. “That’s the smell of your enemy. Get a good whiff. We are not friends.” It could probably smell the apple I still held, not me. I bit off a piece and threw it into the cage, sending it a very mixed message considering the speech I’d given. “Just keeping you on your toes.” “Who are you talking to

I feel her wave of worry like a patio heater - faint and ineffective, but constant.

If you're in the backyard sitting under a tree while everyone else is clinking glasses on the patio, you're more likely to have an apple fall on your head.

Good lord. Building stone patios, chopping wood, and walking everywhere was a workout video he needed to put on the market. ASAP.

You are embarrassed." She leaned over to kiss him, and while he was distracted, snatched the disc. "That's cute. Really cute." "Shut up. Give me that." "I don't think so." Delighted, she danced back a step and held the disc out of reach. "I bet this is very hot. Aren't you curious?" "No." He made a grab, but she was very quick. "Eve, give me the damn thing." "This is fascinating." She edged back toward the open patio doors. "The sophisticated,seen-it-all Roarke is blushing.

I wish I could hold your hand outside this room, go for a walk, sit on a patio, watch the world go by.

Before Ethan went all Incredible Hulk on Thayer’s ass, the most exciting thing to happen was a spray-cheese fight some of the morons from the wrestling team got into on the back patio.

My parents watch too many soap operas, that's their trouble. In fact, they were probably hoping I was pregnant. By my wicked married lover whom they could then murder and bury under the patio.

-Porque el odio es la más angustiosa prisión que pueda existir-musitó caminando de espaldas, sin dejar de mirarla, de grabársela en las retinas y en el corazón-. No hay patio, no hay ventanas, no hay ni una minima esperanza de libertad.El odio te hace resistir, te mantiene vivo, pero a la vez te va dejando sin alma.-

Y está triste como una silla abandonada en la mitad del patio azul Los pájaros la rodean Cae una aguja Las hojas resbalan sin tocarla Y está triste en mitad del patio con la mirada baja los pechos alicaídos dos palomas tardas Y un collar sin perro en la mano Como una silla ya vacía.

Lo que mucha gente llama amar consiste en elegir a una mujer y casarse con ella. La eligen, te lo juro, los he visto. Como si se pudiese elegir en el amor, como si no fuera un rayo que te parte los huesos y te deja estaqueado en la mitad del patio

I picture him always like he’s looking at us through glass—windshields, sliding patio doors.

¿En qué piensas cuando hueles nuestras velas, mi niña? «En Invernalia —le podría haber respondido—. Huelen a nieve, a humo y a agujas de pino. Huelen a los establos. Huelen a las risas de Hodor, y a Jon y a Robb entrenándose juntos en el patio, y a Sansa cantando alguna canción idiota sobre alguna bella dama. Huelen a las criptas donde están sentados los reyes de piedra; huelen a pan caliente en el horno; huelen al bosque de dioses. Huelen a mi loba y huelen a su pelaje; es casi como si la tuviera al lado.»

Breakfast! My favorite meal- and you can be so creative. I think of bowls of sparkling berries and fresh cream, baskets of Popovers and freshly squeezed orange juice, thick country bacon, hot maple syrup, panckes and French toast - even the nutty flavor of Irish oatmeal with brown sugar and cream. Breaksfast is the place I splurge with calories, then I spend the rest of the day getting them off! I love to use my prettiest table settings - crocheted placemats with lace-edged napkins and old hammered silver. And whether you are inside in front of a fire, candles burning brightly on a wintery day - or outside on a patio enjoying the morning sun - whether you are having a group of friends and family, a quiet little brunch for two, or an even quieter little brunch just for yourself, breakfast can set the mood and pace of the whole day. And Sunday is my day. Sometimes I think we get caught up in the hectic happenings of the weeks and months and we forget to take time out to relax. So one Sunday morning I decided to do things differently - now it's gotten to be a sort of ritual! This is what I do: at around 8:30 am I pull myself from my warm cocoon, fluff up the pillows and blankets and put some classical music on the stereo. Then I'm off to the kitchen, where I very calmly (so as not to wake myself up too much!) prepare my breakfast, seomthing extra nice - last week I had fresh pineapple slices wrapped in bacon and broiled, a warm croissant, hot chocolate with marshmallows and orange juice. I put it all on a tray with a cloth napkin, my book-of-the-moment and the "Travel" section of the Boston Globe and take it back to bed with me. There I spend the next two hours reading, eating and dreaming while the snowflakes swirl through the treetops outside my bedroom window. The inspiring music of Back or Vivaldi adds an exquisite elegance to the otherwise unruly scene, and I am in heaven. I found time to get in touch with myself and my life and i think this just might be a necessity! Please try it for yourself, and someone you love.

Si alguien quisiera hacer una lectura de nuestra patria, de esta patria por la que hemos jurado morir en cada himno cantado en los patios de la escuela, esta patria que se ha llevado vidas de jóvenes en sus guerras, esta patria que ha enterrado gente en campos de concentración, si alguien quisiera hacer un registro exacto de esa mierda, entonces debería ver el cuerpo de La Tía Encarna. Eso somos como país también, el daño sin tregua al cuerpo de las travestis. La huella dejada en determinados cuerpos, de manera injusta, azarosa y evitable, esa huella de odio.

You’re crazy,” I whispered, attempting to tug my hand from Sebastian’s grip. “Crazy for you,” he countered, leading me into his kitchen through the back patio door. “You’re ridiculous.” I rolled my eyes. “Ridiculously infatuated with you,” he revised, tugging me along behind him.

By the light coming from the patio, it looked a shade after sunrise. I had to stop waking up at this hour. It was just insane.

A bullet will bounce off its arachnofiber weave like a wren hitting a patio door, but excess perspiration wafts through it like a breeze through a freshly napalmed forest.

don’t sit on your patio in the high noon of your tranquility and make light of the huts that people build in the midnight of their desperation.

Only two hours earlier she was telling me how great I was because I could cook eggs. Now my egg-making means I'm a homicidal maniac. Now I might wipe out random people at a mall because I don't smile enough. Why are the adults in my life so determined to bring me down when I'm feeling good? I find myself thinking that it would be nice to be able to fix my life the way I'm fixing the patio. I wonder, is there enough terracotta-colored cement to fill the hole where my father should be? Or where my mother's spine should be? Or where my guts should be?

Una historia es un laberinto infinito de palabras, imágenes y espíritus conjurados para desvelarnos la verdad invisible sobre nosotros mismos. Una historia es, en definitiva, una conversación entre quien la narra y quien la escucha, y un narrador solo puede contar hasta donde le llega el oficio y un lector solo puede leer hasta donde lleva escrito en el alma. Esa es la regla maestra que sostiene todo artificio de papel y tinta, porque cuando se apagan las luces, se silencia la música y se vacía el patio de butacas, lo único que importa es el espejismo que ha quedado grabado en el teatro de la imaginación que alberga todo lector en su mente. Eso y la esperanza que todo hacedor de cuentos lleva dentro: que el lector haya abierto su corazón a alguna de sus criaturas de papel y le haya entregado algo de sí mismo para hacerla inmortal, aunque solo sea por unos minutos.

I find myself thinking that it would be nice to be able to fix my life the way I’m fixing the patio. I wonder, is there enough terracotta-colored cement to fill the hole where my father should be? Or where my mother’s spine should be? Or where my guts should be?

Walking Around Sucede que me canso de ser hombre. Sucede que entro en las sastrerías y en los cines marchito, impenetrable, como un cisne de fieltro navegando en un agua de origen y ceniza. El olor de las pelquerías me hace llorar a gritos. Sólo quiero un descanso de piedras o de lana, sólo quiero no ver establecimientos ni jardines, ni mercaderías, ni anteojos, ni ascensores. Sucede que me canso de mis pies y mis uñas y mi pelo y mi sombra. Sucede que me canso de ser hombre. Sin embargo sería delicioso asustar a un notario con un lirio cortado o dar muerte a une monja con un golpe de oreja. Sería bello ir por las calles con un cuchillo verde y dando gritos hasta morir de frío. No quiero seguir siendo raíz en las tinieblas, vacilante, extendido, tiritando de sueño, hacia abajo, en las tripas mojadas de la tierra, absorbiendo y pensando, comiendo cada día. No quiero para mí tantas desgracias. No quiero continuar de raíz y de tumba, de subterráneo solo, de bodega con muertos ateridos, muriéndome de pena. Por eso el día lunes arde como el petróleo cuando me ve llegar con mi cara de cárcel, y aúlla en su transcurso como una rueda herida, y da pasos de sangre caliente hacia la noche. Y me empuja a ciertos rincones, a ciertas casas húmedas, a hospitales donde los huesos salen por la ventana, a ciertas zapaterías con olor a vinagre, a calles espantosas como grietas. Hay pájaros de color de azufre y horribles intestinos colgando de las puertas de las casas que odio, hay dentaduras olvidadas en una cafetera, hay espejos que debieran haber llorado de vergüenza y espanto, hay paraguas en todas partes, y venenos, y ombligos. Yo paseo con calma, con ojos, con zapatos, con furia, con olvido, paso, cruzo oficinas y tiendas de ortopedia, y patios donde hay ropas colgadas de un alambre: calzoncillos, toallas y camisas que lloran lentas lágrimas sucias.

that his hair, turning blonder every day, caught the sun before the sun was completely out in the morning; that his billowy blue shirt, becoming ever more billowy when he wore it on gusty days on the patio by the pool, promised to harbor a scent of skin and sweat that made me hard just thinking of it. All this I could have denied. And believed my denials.

Halfway through his reclusion, Arredondo experienced more than once that almost timeless time. In the first of the house’s three patios there was cistern with a frog in it. It never occurred to Arredondo to think that the frog’s time, which borders on eternity, was what he himself sought.

Of course, fall isn't just about preparing for winter. It's also about sitting on the patio in a worn wool sweater and warming your hands over the swirl of steam rising from a coffee cup. It's about walking across a darkened yard and seeing a flight of geese cross the face of a full moon. It's about settling in, relishing sights and sensations of a world slowing down.

He recites the names of the trees, vines, shrubs, flowers that he’s planted here over the years. I count about forty different species. Finally, in the dim light from the patio, he studies a new fern that has just come up. “It’s just vibrant and happy and healthy. The way a patient should be.

Ahora la Maga no estaba en mi camino, y aunque conocíamos nuestros domicilios, cada hueco de nuestras dos habitaciones de falsos estudiantes en París, cada tarjeta postal abriendo una ventanita Branque o Ghirlandaio o Max Ernst contra las molduras baratas y los papeles chillones, aun así no nos buscaríamos en nuestras casas. Preferíamos encontrarnos en el puente, en la terraza de un café, en un cine-club agachados junto a un gato en cualquier patio del barrio latino. Andábamos sin buscarnos pero sabiendo que andábamos para encontrarnos.

I bought a big-ass house and haven't decorated it yet," Psycho replied defensively. "Patio furniture looks good in my living room. I don't have a lamp. The red and green Christmas lights work just fine." "The lights blink." "So do I.

Suviše je ovaj narod patio od nereda, nasilja i nepravde, i suviše navikao da ih podnosi sa podmuklim roptanjem ili da se buni protiv njih, već prema vremenima i okolnostima. Između zlokovarnih, osvetničkih misli i povremenih pobuna prolazi im gorak i pust vek. Za sve drugo oni su neosetljivi i nepristupni. Ponekad se čovek pita da nije duh većine balkanskih naroda zauvek otrovan i da, možda, nikad više neće ni moći ništa drugo do jedno: da trpi nasilje ili da ga čini.

A couple weeks later Blake worked up to walking to the coffee shop by himself—and most other places too. Eve had watched from behind a tree the afternoon she found him sitting on the patio, just basking in the sun. That very night Blake had proposed to Livia with their great-grandmother’s ring. And Livia had said yes.

We were on the patio, Tristan grilling us burgers, as we watched the kids playing in the their park of a backyard. … I pointed a Nikolaj, huddled together with Imogen. “No fucking way,” I told Tristan. “That right there is not happening.” He curled his lip at me, waving a hand at Cleo and Duncan. They were holding hands. They were only six, but that wasn’t the point. “What about that right there? What the ever-loving fuck is up with that? I’ll tell you right now I won’t stand for it.

Madre o mujer; a ninguna madre se le perdona que quiera ser mujer después de un hijo: arreglarse, ir a bailar a una caseta, pintarse la boca está prohibido: «Vela ve, ¿a dónde vas tan arreglada? Pa estregar el patio no hay que pintarse, comadre».

The sense of the missing member of the party was a fog low over the patio, changing the look and feel of everything.

She decided she wasn't quite ready to make decisions regarding her day and took her second cup of coffee back outside to the patio.

Yeah, I had to get in. The door was locked, so I grabbed a patio chair and viola! A glass of water." "Wow, you're my hero." "Shut up.

El bien. No, yo no era el bien. Yo no era nada, y mi alma, mi alma eterna, estaba maldita... Traté de conseguir que los pulmones que me traicionaban tomaran aire para decir la palabra. No..., no. Pero no tuve que decirla. Él trueno sonó detrás de mí como si alguien hubiera arrojado dos enormes piedras, una contra la otra. Todos gritaron y cayeron hacia atrás, algunos desaparecieron corriendo por los costados del patio. Se abrió la oscuridad. Yo me volví, y a través de la noche que se movía como humo en el viento, descubrí a Rhysand, que en ese momento se enderezaba las solapas de la chaqueta negra. —Hola, Feyre, querida —ronroneó.

I rushed through the patio of an abandoned Au Bon Pain restaurant and paused just long enough to take hold of one of the metal tables crowding the patio space. One thing you learn in explosives training with the Secret Service is that glass can kill you just as easily as bullets can.

Later, when we’re home, we take Cassie in the backyard to run around, and Skylar puts Gus in a cat stroller and pushes her around the perimeter of the property. I stand on the back patio smoking, wondering how I ended up with a teen bride pushing a cat in a baby stroller across my yard.

Betty's now have a patio garden, where the tourists can sit in the sun and fry to a crisp; it's in the back, that little square of cracked cement where they used to keep the garbage cans. They offer tortellini and cappuccino, boldly proclaimed in the window as if everyone in town just naturally knows what they are. Well, they do by now; they've had a try, if only to acquire sneering rights.

What I'm trying to say is, as I get older, all the things I've done to make money have become less important in my life. I'm proud of the company. I've built it up from nothing and I'm sure as hell not going to stand by and watch it get eaten up. But when I'm sitting out on the patio on a Sunday afternoon and I start counting my blessings, it's the people I love that come to my mind, not the company.

I guess that’s what rage is: the point where your words fail the power of your emotions. Maybe there can be happiness rage and sadness rage. I am in love rage with Ralph and sometimes it hurts so bad I could knock a patio chair over like that sloppy, gaping fuckhole, that rotten fucking fuck-ass boyfriend did.

It occurred to me one evening, as I sat by myself in Al’s patio, that a man can live on his wits and his balls for only so long. I’d been doing it for ten years and I had a feeling that my reserve was running low.

Schindler shook his head, and she thought it was too glib an encouragement to her to hope. Suddenly, the good cloth and the pampered flesh of Herr Schindler were a provocation. "For God's sake, Herr Direktor, I see things. We were up on the roof on Monday, chipping off the ice, me and young Lisiek. And we saw the Herr Commandant come out of the front door and down the steps by the patio, right below us. And, there on the steps, he drew his gun and shot a woman who was passing. A woman carrying a bundle. Through the throat. Just a woman on her way somewhere. You know. She didn't seem fatter or thinner or slower or faster than anyone else. I couldn't guess what she'd done. The more you see of the Herr Commandant, the more you see that there's no set of rules you can keep to. You can't say to yourself, If I allow these rules, I'll be safe. . . .

If Mrs. Child's ghost was planting, my father's was building. Half finished, nearly finished, and just started projects which waited throughout the house. In Evie's room, the closet he built swung open with a bang, impatient for a latch. The closet without a door in Rene's room just stared - day and night - like someone gone mad. The garage let in birds that left a mess where planks had been pried off for a second car to rest. Worst of all, the hole that he dug for my mother's patio filled with rainwater and grew grass as tall as in the marsh. Instead of a place to entertain in summer, it became a nature reserve which she could not close down. A holiday park for mosquitos. A rest home for caterpillars and other things that she loathed that squirmed.

On hands and knees the figure comes pacing along beside the wall that flanks the patio, lithe, sinuous, knife in mouth perpendicular to its course. In moonlight and out of it, as each successive archway of the portico circles high above it, comes down to join its support, and is gone again to the rear. The moon is a caress on supple skin. The moon of Anahuac understands, the moon is in league, the moon will not betray. ("The Moon of Montezuma")

Hans Eysenck once observed, introversion “concentrates the mind on the tasks in hand, and prevents the dissipation of energy on social and sexual matters unrelated to work.” In other words, if you’re in the backyard sitting under a tree while everyone else is clinking glasses on the patio, you’re more likely to have an apple fall on your head.

Le confesé que tenía notas para una novela que trataba de eso, de un tipo que se moría de pequeño, en el patio del colegio, pero que no decía nada a nadie por discreción, por delicadeza, por no joder, en suma, y fingía que continuaba vivo.

Now the moon of the Aztecs is at the zenith, and all the world lies still. Full and white, the white of bones, the white of a skull; blistering the center of the sky well with its throbbing, not touching it on any side. Now the patio is a piebald place of black and white, burning in the downward-teeming light. Not a leaf moves, not a petal falls, in this fierce amalgam. ("The Moon Of Montezuma")

Down in sunny Mexico there lived an old aunt with four very pretty nieces. One day Pancho Villa and his gang of revolutionary bandits broke into their house. Accosting them on the patio the brigand said, “This place is in our possession and you are in our power.” “We are helpless!” one of the girls exclaimed, “and we must submit, but please spare poor old Aunt.” “Shut up!” snapped the aunt. “War is war!

Her address book confirmed it, the pages inhabited equally by the living and the dead....Each name called up raucous dinner parties and gin-and-tonics on sunny patios, lazy Saturday afternoons at the swim club, station wagons filled with noisy boys in polyester baseball uniforms.

It had grown darker now; it was full night already, with the swiftness of the mountainous latitudes. The square of sky over the patio was soft and dark as indigo velour, with magnificent stars like many-legged silver spiders festooned on its underside. Below them the white roses gleamed phosphorescently in the starlight, with a magnesium-like glow. There was a tiny splash from the depths of the well as a pebble or grain of dislodged earth fell in. ("The Moon Of Montezuma")

After dinner, I went upstairs and found Ren standing on the veranda again, looking at the sunset. I approached him shyly and stood behind him. “Hello, Ren.” He turned and openly studied my appearance. His gaze drifted ever so slowly down my body. The longer he looked, the wider his smile got. Eventually, his eyes worked their way back up to my bright red face. He sighed and bowed deeply. “Sundari. I was standing here thinking nothing could be more beautiful than this sunset tonight, but I was mistaken. You standing here in the setting sun with your hair and skin aglow is almost more than a man can…fully appreciate.” I tried to change the subject. “What does sundari mean?” “It means ‘most beautiful.’” I blushed again, which made him laugh. He took my hand, tucked it under his arm, and led me to the patio chairs. Just then, the sun dipped below the trees leaving its tangerine glow in the sky for just a few more moments. We sat again, but this time he sat next to me on the swinging patio seat and kept my hand in his. I ventured shyly, “I hope you don’t mind, but I explored your house today, including your room.” “I don’t mind. I’m sure you found my room the least interesting.” “Actually, I was curious about the note I found. Did you write it?” “A note? Ah, yes. I just scribbled a few notes to help me remember what Phet had said. It just says seek Durga’s prophecy, the Cave of Kanheri, Kelsey is Durga’s favored one, that sort of thing.” “Oh. I…also noticed a ribbon. Is it mine?” “Yes. If you’d like it back, you can take it.” “Why would you want it?” He shrugged, looking embarrassed. “I wanted a memento, a token from the girl who saved my life.” “A token? Like a fair maiden giving her handkerchief to a knight in shining armor?” He grinned. “Exactly.” I jested wryly, “Too bad you didn’t wait for Cathleen to get a little older. She’s going to be very pretty.” He frowned. “Cathleen from the circus?” He shook his head. “You were the chosen one, Kelsey. And if I had the option of choosing the girl to save me, I still would have picked you.” “Why?” “A number of reasons. I liked you. You are interesting. I enjoyed listening to your voice. I felt like you saw through the tiger skin to the person underneath. When you spoke, it felt like you were saying exactly the things I needed to hear. You’re smart. You like poetry, and you’re very pretty.” I laughed at his statement. Me, pretty? He can’t be serious. I was average in so many ways. I didn’t really concern myself with current makeup, hairstyles, or fashionable, but uncomfortable, clothes like other teenagers. My complexion was pale, and my eyes were so brown that they were almost black. By far, my best feature was my smile, which my parents paid dearly for and so did I-with three years of metal braces. Still, I was flattered. “Okay, Prince Charming, you can keep your memento.” I hesitated, and then said softly, “I wear those ribbons in memory of my mom. She used to brush out my hair and braid ribbons through it while we talked.” Ren smiled understandingly. “Then it means even more to me.

Pero el amor, esa palabra… Moralista Horacio, temeroso de pasiones sin una razón de aguas hondas, desconcertado y arisco en la ciudad donde el amor se llama con todos los nombres de todas las calles, de todas las casas, de todos los pisos, de todas las habitaciones, de todas las camas, de todos los sueños, de todos los olvidos o los recuerdos. Amor mío, no te quiero por vos ni por mí ni por los dos juntos, no te quiero porque la sangre me llame a quererte, te quiero porque no sos mía, porque estás del otro lado, ahí donde me invitás a saltar y no puedo dar el salto, porque en lo más profundo de la posesión no estás en mí, no te alcanzo, no paso de tu cuerpo, de tu risa, hay horas en que me atormenta que me ames (cómo te gusta usar el verbo amar, con qué cursilería lo vas dejando caer sobre los platos y las sábanas y los autobuses), me atormenta tu amor que no me sirve de puente porque un puente no se sostiene de un solo lado, jamás Wright ni Le Corbusier van a hacer un puente sostenido de un solo lado, y no me mires con esos ojos de pájaro, para vos la operación del amor es tan sencilla, te curarás antes que yo y eso que me querés como yo no te quiero. Claro que te curarás, porque vivís en la salud, después de mí será cualquier otro, eso se cambia como los corpiños. Tan triste oyendo al cínico Horacio que quiere un amor pasaporte, amor pasamontañas, amor llave, amor revólver, amor que le dé los mil ojos de Argos, la ubicuidad, el silencio desde donde la música es posible, la raíz desde donde se podría empezar a tejer una lengua. Y es tonto porque todo eso duerme un poco en vos, no habría más que sumergirte en un vaso de agua como una flor japonesa y poco a poco empezarían a brotar los pétalos coloreados, se hincharían las formas combadas, crecería la hermosura. Dadora de infinito, yo no sé tomar, perdoname. Me estás alcanzando una manzana y yo he dejado los dientes en la mesa de luz. Stop, ya está bien así. También puedo ser grosero, fijate. Pero fijate bien, porque no es gratuito. ¿Por qué stop? Por miedo de empezar las fabricaciones, son tan fáciles. Sacás una idea de ahí, un sentimiento del otro estante, los atás con ayuda de palabras, perras negras, y resulta que te quiero. Total parcial: te quiero. Total general: te amo. Así viven muchos amigos míos, sin hablar de un tío y dos primos, convencidos del amor-que-sienten-por-sus-esposas. De la palabra a los actos, che; en general sin verba no hay res. Lo que mucha gente llama amar consiste en elegir a una mujer y casarse con ella. La eligen, te lo juro, los he visto. Como si se pudiese elegir en el amor, como si no fuera un rayo que te parte los huesos y te deja estaqueado en la mitad del patio. Vos dirás que la eligen porque-la-aman, yo creo que es al verse. A Beatriz no se la elige, a Julieta no se la elige. Vos no elegís la lluvia que te va a calar hasta los huesos cuando salís de un concierto.

A raging, glowering full moon had come up, was peering down over the side of the sky well above the patio. That was the last thing she saw as she leaned for a moment, inert with fatigue, against the doorway of the room in which her child lay. Then she dragged herself in to topple headlong upon the bed and, already fast asleep, to circle her child with one protective arm, moving as if of its own instinct. Not the meek, the pallid, gentle moon of home. This was the savage moon that had shone down on Montezuma and Cuauhtemoc, and came back looking for them now. The primitive moon that had once looked down on terraced heathen cities and human sacrifices. The moon of Anahuac. ("The Moon Of Montezuma")

On vacation you can be anyone you want Like a good book or an incredible outfit, being on vacation transports you into another version of yourself.
In your day-to-day life, maybe you can’t even bob your head to the radio without being embarrassed, but on the right twinkly-light-strung patio, with the right steel drum band, you’ll find yourself whirling and twirling with the best of them. On vacation, your hair changes. The water is different, maybe the shampoo. Maybe you don’t bother to wash your hair at all, or brush it, because the salty ocean water curls it up in a way you love. You think, Maybe I could do this at home too. Maybe I could be this person who doesn’t brush her hair, who doesn’t mind being sweaty or having sand in all her crevices. On vacation, you strike up conversations with strangers, and forget that there are any stakes. If it turns out impossibly awkward, who cares? You’ll never see them again!

A small wax and sawdust log burned on the grate. A carton of five more sat ready on the hearth. He got up from the sofa and put them all in the fireplace. He watched until they flamed. Then he finished his soda and made for the patio door. On the way, he saw the pies lined up on the sideboard. He stacked them in his arms, all six, one for every ten times she had ever betrayed him.

He left through the patio door. He was not certain, but he thought he had proved something. He hoped he had made something clear. The thing was, they had to have a serious talk soon. There were things that needed talking about, important things that had to be discussed. They’d talk again. Maybe after the holidays were over and things got back to normal. He’d tell her the goddamn ashtray was a goddamn dish, for example.

Me miró con angustia en sus ojos. Me dijo: ―Déjala quedarse, Julia. Me necesita en este momento —Lake, me rompiste el corazón. Me rompió el corazón que lo necesitaras más a él de lo que me necesitabas a mí. Tan pronto como las palabras salieron de su boca, me di cuenta que ya habías crecido... que yo ya no era toda tu vida. Will pudo verlo. Se dio cuenta de lo mucho que sus palabras me hirieron. Cuando me volví para regresar a casa, me siguió hasta el patio y me abrazó. Me dijo que nunca te arrebataría de mí. Dijo que te iba a dejar ir... te iba permitir concentrarte en mí y en el tiempo que me quedaba. Coloca el regalo envuelto en la cama. Se acerca a mí y vuelve a tomar mis manos. —Lake, no ha seguido adelante. No eligió este nuevo trabajo sobre ti... eligió a su nuevo trabajo sobre nosotros. Él quería que tuvieras más tiempo conmigo.

This was different. It had synths droning and sending saltwater waves under my feet. It had drumbeats bursting like fireworks, rumbling the furniture out of place, and then a crazy, irregular, disharmonious, spiral crescendo of pure electric noise, like a typhoon dragging our bodies into it. It featured brass orchestras and choirs of mermaids and a piano in Iceland, all of them right there, visible, touchable, in Axton House. It shook us, fucked us, suspended us far above the reach of Help bouncing on his hind legs. It spoke of magenta sunsets and plastic patio chairs growing moss under summer storms rolling on caterpillar tracks. It sprinkled a bokeh of car lights rushing through night highways and slapped our faces like the wind at a hundred and twenty miles an hour. It pictured Niamh playing guitar, washed up naked on a beach in Fiji.

«Tomamos una aldea... Buscábamos agua. Entramos en un patio donde habíamos divisado un pozo con cigoñal. Un pozo artesanal, tallado a mano... En el patio yacía el dueño de la casa, fusilado... A su lado estaba sentado su perro. Nos vio y comenzó a gañir. Tardamos en comprender que nos estaba llamando. El perro nos llevó a la casa. En la puerta hallamos a la mujer y a tres niños... »El perro se sentó y lloró. Lloró de verdad. Como lloran los humanos...»

Oh? Now tell me your gut reaction to the following words. Colonial. Dellahay. Wood. Patio. Five Pieces. Sun resistant, wind resistant, Judgment Day resistant. Amazing value at just $299. And consider the Dellahay motto neatly inscribed on their cute little tags: 'Patio furniture isn't furniture. It's a state of mind.' " Dad smiled, putting his arm around me as he pushed me gently toward Garden. "I'll give you ten thousand dollars if you can tell me what that means.

Pienso cuando maduraban los limones. En el viento de febrero que rompía los tallos de los helechos, antes que el abandono los secara; los limones maduros que llenaban con su olor el viejo patio. El viento bajaba de las montañas en las mañanas de febrero. Y las nubes se quedaban allá arriba en espera de que el tiempo bueno las hiciera bajar al valle; mientras tanto dejaban vacío el cielo azul, dejaban que la luz cayera en el juego del viento haciendo círculos sobre la tierra, removiendo el polvo y batiendo las ramas de los naranjos. Y los gorriones reían; picoteaban las hojas que el aire hacía caer, y reían; dejaban sus plumas entre las espinas de las ramas y perseguían a las mariposas y reían. Era esa época. En febrero, cuando las mañanas estaban llenas de viento, de gorriones y de luz azul. Me acuerdo. Mi madre murió entonces. Que yo debía haber gritado: que mis manos tenían que haberse hecho pedazos estrujando su desesperación. Así hubieras tú querido que fuera. ¿Pero acaso no era alegre aquella mañana? Por la puerta abierta entraba el aire, quebrando las guías de la yedra. En mis piernas comenzaba a crecer el vello entre las venas, y mis manos temblaban tibias al tocar mis senos. Los gorriones jugaban. En las lomas se mecían las espigas. Me dio lástima que ella ya no volviera a ver el juego del viento en los jazmines; que cerrara sus ojos a la luz de los días. ¿Pero por qué iba a llorar?

Aura vestida de verde, con esa bata de tafeta por donde asoman, al avanzar hacia ti la mujer, los muslos color de luna: la mujer, repetirás al tenerla cerca, la mujer, no la muchacha de ayer: la muchacha de ayer - cuando toques sus dedos, su talle - no podía tener mas de veinte anos; la mujer de hoy - y acaricies su pelo negro, suelto, su mejilla pálida - parece de cuarenta: algo se ha endurecido, entre ayer y hoy, alrededor de los ojos verdes; el rojo de los labios se ha oscurecida fuera de su forma antigua, como si quisiera fijarse en una mueca alegre, en una sonrisa turbia: como si alternara, a semejanza de esa plata del patio, el sabor de la miel y el de la amargura. No tienes tiempo de pensar mas: (47)

Od onog časa kad ste me vi počeli mrziti, ja sam vas počeo ljubiti. (...) Sav moj život od onog časa bio je prazan, nikad mi srce nije u ljubavi zadrhtalo, nikad propatilo, nikad žena nije potresla moju dušu. (...) Svojim glasom koji mi je prodirao u dušu posijali ste u meni onu klicu iz koje je proklijala moja bezumna ljubav. Ljubio sam vas bez nade, bez cilja, divlje poput luđaka i nježno poput djeteta. Sva moja divlja ćud promijenila se u janje što leži do nogu svog gospodara i onda kad ga odgurne. A kad sam poslije govorio s vama, bio sam osoran i grub, a ipak, svaka moja gruba riječ milovala vas je tajno, svaki moj hladni pogled kriomice vas je cjelivao. Svaki moj divlji, sablažnjiv čin bio je krinka - da sakrijem svoju beznadnu ljubav. Vi ste se grozili od mene, smatrali me svojim zlotvorom, a pred vama je bio nesretnik koji nije želio ništa drugo nego da mu dopustite da vas spasi iz ruku progonitelja! Ali vi to niste osjetili, vi o tom niste razmišljali. Kako je velika i beskrajna bila moja ljubav, tako je velika i beskrajna bila vaša mržnja. Šutio sam i patio...Danas bih kleknuo i blagoslivljao sve te svoje boli, jer su mi donijele najveću sreću o kojoj se nikad nisam usudio pomišljati ni u snu.

I wake up one day and it’s twenty-plus years later, and here I am still. That’s getting left behind. And even then, you can have a decent life. You know why I’m still here? It’s because I’m content. Maybe even happy. I found my path. My life is simple. I wake up in the morning. I eat my Cheerios, drink my coffee, think my thoughts. I go home after work and sit on my back patio and pet my dog and listen to music and myself breathing. It feels good to be alive and exist. Most things haven’t worked out for me - especially love - but that’s all right. I’m not as pretty as I used to be. More of my life’s behind me than in front of me. Who knows how many years I took off it while I was partying. But I’m a lot healthier now, if you can believe it. “I get lonely sometimes, but so does everyone else. We’re all looking for some sort of salvation in something sometimes we try to find it in people. We find out salvation, and it slips through our fingers. We find it again. We get left behind. Living is hurting, but I’ll take living over the alternative any day. Consciousness is a marvelous gift. It took almost dying to make me realize that. Hell, I’m just rambling now. Anyway, having said all this, you did not get left behind.

Y mañana, cuando tu primavera se derrumbe como la arquitectura de una flor, cuando te huyan todas las miradas y se te nieguen todas las sonrisas; cuando las noches alegres te vuelvan sus espaldas, y a puntapiés la música te arroje de su loco reinado; entonces volverás al suburbio, y será en una tarde con olor de aguas muertas, y el eco de tus pasos en la calle despertará recuerdos y exaltará fantasmas. Y cuando al fin descienda la lluvia de tus ojos una voz de muchacha cantará en algún patio: Cascabel, cascabelito, ríe, ríe y no llores

Of all modes of transport, the train is perhaps the best aid to thought. The views have none of the potential monotony of those on a ship or a plane, moving quickly enough for us not to get exasperated but slowly enough to allow us to identify objects. They offer us brief, inspiring glimpses into private domains, letting us see a woman at the precise moment when she takes a cup from a shelf in her kitchen, then carrying us on to a patio where a man is sleeping and then to a park where a child is catching a ball thrown by a figure we cannot see.

Aquella sociedad potosina, enferma de ostentación y despilfarro, sólo dejó a Bolivia la vaga memoria de sus esplendores, las ruinas de sus iglesias y palacios, y ocho millones de cadáveres de indios. Cualquiera de los diamantes incrustados en el escudo de un caballero rico valía más, al fin y al cabo, que lo que un indio podía ganar en toda su vida de mitayo, pero el caballero se fugó con los diamantes. Bolivia, hoy uno de los países más pobres del mundo, podría jactarse -si ello no resultara patéticamente inútil- de haber nutrido la riqueza de los países más ricos. En nuestros días, Potosí es una pobre ciudad de la pobre Bolivia: "La ciudad que más ha dado al mundo y la que menos tiene", como me dijo una vieja señora potosina, evuelta en un kilométrico chal de lana de alpaca, cuando conversamos ante al patio andaluz de su casa de dos siglos. Esta ciudad condenada a la nostalgia, atormentada por la miseria y el frío, es todavía una herida abierta del sistema colonial en América: una acusación. El mundo tendría que empezar por pedirle disculpas.

Outside the window of the balcony room, three metal guys were building a new patio for the defunct pool. The pool was slowly filling with red dust carried across the highway by intermittent breezes. At some point I stood up from the table and pulled back the curtain a bit and watched the half naked bodies of the guys climbing in and out of their trucks for tools or to turn up the volume of the music. I felt like a detective with only the window glass and the curtains camouflaging my desire. For a moment I was afraid the intensity of my sexual fantasies would become strangely audible; the energy of the thought images would become so loud that all three guys would turn simultaneously like witnesses to a nearby car crash.

Jackson stood quietly as Alani came into the house. Unlike the other women, she didn’t wear a swimsuit. Shame. He’d love to see her in one. Everyone had duly celebrated Trace’s engagement, and Alani seemed taken with Priss—but then, who wouldn’t be? Priss was funny, smart, cute and—luckily for Trace—stacked. Unaware of Jackson, Alani stopped to look out the patio doors. She looked . . . wistful. Like maybe she wanted to take part, but couldn’t. In so many ways, despite being kidnapped by flesh peddlers, or maybe because of that, she was still an innocent. At just-barely twenty-three, she acted much older. Like a virgin spinster. Every night, in his dreams, they burned up the sheets. Here, in reality, she avoided him. She avoided involvement. But he’d get her over that. Somehow. Suddenly Priss came in, wet hair sleek down her back, rivulets of water trailing between her breasts. She spotted Jackson right off and, after smiling at Alani, asked them both, “Why aren’t you guys coming down to swim?” Alani jerked around to stare at Jackson with big eyes. His crooked smile told her that he had her in his sights. “I was just about to ask Alani that.” Priss laughed. “You’re still dressed.” “I can undress fast enough.” He looked at Alani. “What about you?” Her lips parted. “No, I . . . didn’t bring a suit.” “Pity. Maybe we could move up to the cove and skinny-dip in private?” Pointing a finger at him, Priss said, “Behave, you reprobate!” And then to Alani, “Beware of that one.” Still watching him, Alani nodded.

Sevro, swarmed by his daughters, makes faces at them as they eat. But when the air cracks with a sonic boom, he bolts upright, looks at the sky, and runs off into the house, urging his children to stay put. He returns a whole half an hour later arm in arm with his wife, hair a mess, two jacket buttons missing, touching a white napkin to a bloodied, split lip. My old friend Victra, immaculate in a high-collared green jacket threaded with gemstones, beams devilishly across the patio at me. She’s seven months pregnant with their fourth daughter. “Well, if it isn’t the Reaper in the leathery flesh. Apologies, my goodman. I’m dreadfully late.” Her long legs cover the distance in three strides. I greet her with a hug. She squeezes my butt hard enough to make me jump. She kisses Mustang on the head and slides into a chair, dominating the table. “Hello, gloomy one,” she says to Electra.

One of my favorite album covers is On the Beach. Of course that was the name of a movie and I stole it for my record, but that doesn't matter. The idea for that cover came like a bolt from the blue. Gary and I traveled around getting all the pieces to put it together. We went to a junkyard in Santa Ana to get the tail fin and fender from a 1959 Cadillac, complete with taillights, and watched them cut it off a Cadillac for us, then we went to a patio supply place to get the umbrella and table. We picke up the bad polyester yellow jacket and white pants at a sleazy men's shop, where we watched a shoplifter getting caught red-handed and busted. Gary and I were stoned on some dynamite weed and stood there dumbfounded watching the bust unfold. This girl was screaming and kicking! Finally we grabbed a local LA paper to use as a prop. It had this amazing headline: Sen. Buckley Calls For Nixon to Resign. Next we took the palm tree I had taken around the world on the Tonight's the Night tour. We then placed all of these pieces carefully in the sand at Santa Monica beach. Then we shot it. Bob Seidemann was the photographer, the same one who took the famous Blind Faith cover shot of the naked young girl holding the airplane. We used the crazy pattern from the umbrella insides for the inside of the sleeve that held the vinyl recording. That was the creative process at work. We lived for that, Gary and I, and we still do.

There was a big “Sesame Street Live” extravaganza over at Madison Square Garden, so thousands of people decided to make a day of it and go straight from Sesame Street to Santa. We were packed today, absolutely packed, and everyone was cranky. Once the line gets long we break it up into four different lines because anyone in their right mind would leave if they knew it would take over two hours to see Santa. Two hours — you could see a movie in two hours. Standing in a two-hour line makes people worry that they’re not living in a democratic nation. People stand in line for two hours and they go over the edge. I was sent into the hallway to direct the second phase of the line. The hallway was packed with people, and all of them seemed to stop me with a question: which way to the down escalator, which way to the elevator, the Patio Restaurant, gift wrap, the women’s rest room, Trim-A-Tree. There was a line for Santa and a line for the women’s bathroom, and one woman, after asking me a dozen questions already, asked, “Which is the line for the women’s bathroom?” I shouted that I thought it was the line with all the women in it. She said, “I’m going to have you fired.” I had two people say that to me today, “I’m going to have you fired.” Go ahead, be my guest. I’m wearing a green velvet costume; it doesn’t get any worse than this. Who do these people think they are? “I’m going to have you fired!” and I wanted to lean over and say, “I’m going to have you killed.

With Tommy by his side but Anthony Jr. nowhere to be seen, Anthony cranks out an old 8mm projector, and soon choppy black- and-white images appear on the cream wall capturing a few snapshots from the canyon of their life—that tell nothing, and yet somehow everything. They watch old movies, from 1963, 1952, 1948, 1947—the older, the more raucous the children and parents becoming. This year, because Ingrid isn’t here, Anthony shows them something new. It’s from 1963. A birthday party, this one with happy sound, cake, unlit candles. Anthony is turning twenty. Tatiana is very pregnant with Janie. (“Mommy, look, that’s you in Grammy’s belly!” exclaims Vicky.) Harry toddling around, pursued loudly and relentlessly by Pasha—oh, how in 1999 six children love to see their fathers wild like them, how Mary and Amy love to see their precious husbands small. The delight in the den is abundant. Anthony sits on the patio, bare chested, in swimshorts, one leg draped over the other, playing his guitar, “playing Happy Birthday to myself,” he says now, except it’s not “Happy Birthday.” The joy dims slightly at the sight of their brother, their father so beautiful and whole he hurts their united hearts—and suddenly into the frame, in a mini-dress, walks a tall dark striking woman with endless legs and comes to stand close to Anthony. The camera remains on him because Anthony is singing, while she flicks on her lighter and ignites the candles on his cake; one by one she lights them as he strums his guitar and sings the number one hit of the day, falling into a burning “Ring of Fire ... ” The woman doesn’t look at Anthony, he doesn’t look at her, but in the frame you can see her bare thigh flush against the sole of his bare foot the whole time she lights his twenty candles plus one to grow on. And it burns, burns, burns . . . And when she is done, the camera—which never lies—catches just one microsecond of an exchanged glance before she walks away, just one gram of neutral matter exploding into an equivalent of 20,000 pounds of TNT. The reel ends. Next. The budding novelist Rebecca says, “Dad, who was that? Was that Grammy’s friend Vikki?” “Yes,” says Anthony. “That was Grammy’s friend Vikki.” Tak zhivya, bez radosti/bez muki/pomniu ya ushedshiye goda/i tvoi serebryannyiye ruki/v troike yeletevshey navsegda . . . So I live—remembering with sadness all the happy years now gone by, remembering your long and silver arms, forever in the troika that flew by . . . Back

—Lo siento —dije. Alex abrió la boca para hablar y yo negué con la cabeza para detenerlo—. Alex, sólo escúchame. Necesito que entiendas. Cuando pensé que mi madre estaba muerta… su funeral… y los días posteriores, sólo conseguí lograrlo gracias a ti, porque estuviste justo a mi lado cuidándome. Y cuando mi padre me llevó a Londres, lo único que conseguía sacarme de la cama en la mañana, y a través de cada día en esa maldita escuela, era el pensamiento de que un día llegaría a verte de nuevo. Sólo saber que estabas por ahí, era suficiente. Así que, incluso antes de esto, incluso antes de que realmente comenzaras a rescatarme de los hombres malos con armas grandes, te necesitaba. He sido impulsiva y loca y aprovechado oportunidades toda mi vida porque siempre he sabido que estarías allí cuando las cosas fueran mal. Lo que pasa. Mucho.¿Recuerdas el lago? ¿El incidente del trineo? ¿El árbol en el patio trasero? Y ni siquiera hemos llegado a casi ser capturada por La Unidad en un Seven Eleven o recibir un disparo en Joshua Tree. Y en cada uno de esos momentos me has rescatado. Cada vez has estado allí. Eres como mi red de seguridad.

Everybody knows, but many deny, that eating red meat gives one character. Strength, stamina, stick-to-it-iveness, constitution, not to mention a healthful, glowing pelt. But take a seat for a second. Listen. I eat salad. How’s that for a punch in the nuts, ladies? What’s more, as I sit typing this on a Santa Fe patio, I just now ate a bowl of oatmeal. That’s right. Because I’m a real human animal, not a television character. You see, despite the beautifully Ron Swanson–like notion that one should exist solely on beef, pork, and wild game, the reality remains that our bodies need more varied foodstuffs that facilitate health and digestive functions, but you don’t have to like it. I eat a bunch of spinach, but only to clean out my pipes to make room for more ribs, fool! I will submit to fruit and zucchini, yes, with gusto, so that my steak-eating machine will continue to masticate delicious charred flesh at an optimal running speed. By consuming kale, I am buying myself bonus years of life, during which I can eat a shit-ton more delicious meat. You don’t put oil in your truck because it tastes good. You do it so your truck can continue burning sweet gasoline and hauling a manly payload.

Musk burst in carrying a sink and laughing. It was one of those visual puns that amuses him. “Let that sink in!” he exclaimed. “Let’s party on!” Agrawal and Segal smiled. Musk seemed amazed as he wandered around Twitter’s headquarters, which was in a ten-story Art Deco former merchandise mart built in 1937. It had been renovated in a tech-hip style with coffee bars, yoga studio, fitness room, and game arcades. The cavernous ninth-floor café, with a patio overlooking San Francisco’s City Hall, served free meals ranging from artisanal hamburgers to vegan salads. The signs on the restrooms said, “Gender diversity is welcome here,” and as Musk poked through cabinets filled with stashes of Twitter-branded merchandise, he found T-shirts emblazoned with the words “Stay woke,” which he waved around as an example of the mindset that he believed had infected the company. In the second-floor conference facilities, which Musk commandeered as his base camp, there were long wooden tables filled with earthy snacks and five types of water, including bottles from Norway and cans of Liquid Death. “I drink tap water,” Musk said when offered one. It was an ominous opening scene. One could smell a culture clash brewing, as if a hardscrabble cowboy had walked into a Starbucks.

Inside a wool jacket the man had made a pocket for the treasure and from time to time he would jiggle the pocket, just to make sure that it was still there. And when on the train he rode to work he would jiggle it there also, but he would disguise his jiggling of the treasure on the train by devising a distraction. For example, the man would pretend to be profoundly interested in something outside the train, such as the little girl who seemed to be jumping high up on a trampoline, just high enough so that she could spy the man on the train, and in this way he really did become quite interested in what occurred outside the train, although he would still jiggle the treasure, if only out of habit. Also on the train he'd do a crossword puzzle and check his watch by rolling up his sleeve; when he did so he almost fell asleep. Antoine often felt his life to be more tedious with this treasure, because in order not to be overly noticed he had deemed it wise to fall into as much a routine as possible and do everything as casually as possible, and so, as a consequence, despite the fact that he hated his wife and daughter, he didn't leave them, he came home to them every night and he ate the creamed chicken that his wife would prepare for him, he would accept the large, fleshy hand that would push him around while he sat around in his house in an attempt to read or watch the weather, he took out the trash, he got up on time every morning and took a quick, cold shower, he shaved, he accepted the cold eggs and orange juice and coffee, he picked the newspaper off the patio and took it inside with him to read her the top headlines, and of course he went to the job.

Jack took two steps towards the couch and then heard his daughter’s distressed wails, wincing. “Oh, right. The munchkin.” He instead turned and headed for the stairs, yawning and scratching his messy brown hair, calling out, “Hang on, chubby monkey, Daddy’s coming.” Jack reached the top of the stairs. And stopped dead. There was a dragon standing in the darkened hallway. At first, Jack swore he was still asleep. He had to be. He couldn’t possibly be seeing correctly. And yet the icy fear slipping down his spine said differently. The dragon stood at roughly five feet tall once its head rose upon sighting Jack at the other end of the hallway. It was lean and had dirty brown scales with an off-white belly. Its black, hooked claws kneaded the carpet as its yellow eyes stared out at Jack, its pupils dilating to drink him in from head to toe. Its wings rustled along its back on either side of the sharp spines protruding down its body to the thin, whip-like tail. A single horn glinted sharp and deadly under the small, motion-activated hallway light. The only thing more noticeable than that were the many long, jagged scars scored across the creature’s stomach, limbs, and neck. It had been hunted recently. Judging from the depth and extent of the scars, it had certainly killed a hunter or two to have survived with so many marks. “Okay,” Jack whispered hoarsely. “Five bucks says you’re not the Easter Bunny.” The dragon’s nostrils flared. It adjusted its body, feet apart, lips sliding away from sharp, gleaming white teeth in a warning hiss. Mercifully, Naila had quieted and no longer drew the creature’s attention. Jack swallowed hard and held out one hand, bending slightly so his six-foot-two-inch frame was less threatening. “Look at me, buddy. Just keep looking at me. It’s alright. I’m not going to hurt you. Why don’t you just come this way, huh?” He took a single step down and the creature crept forward towards him, hissing louder. “That’s right. This way. Come on.” Jack eased backwards one stair at a time. The dragon let out a warning bark and followed him, its saliva leaving damp patches on the cream-colored carpet. Along the way, Jack had slipped his phone out of his pocket and dialed 9-1-1, hoping he had just enough seconds left in the reptile’s waning patience. “9-1-1, what’s your emergency?” “Listen to me carefully,” Jack said, not letting his eyes stray from the dragon as he fumbled behind him for the handle to the sliding glass door. He then quickly gave her his address before continuing. “There is an Appalachian forest dragon in my house. Get someone over here as fast as you can.” “We’re contacting a retrieval team now, sir. Please stay calm and try not to make any loud noises or sudden movements–“ Jack had one barefoot on the cool stone of his patio when his daughter Naila cried for him again. The dragon’s head turned towards the direction of upstairs. Jack dropped his cell phone, grabbed a patio chair, and slammed it down on top of the dragon’s head as hard as he could.

Near the exit to the blue patio, DeCoverley Pox and Joaquin Stick stand by a concrete scale model of the Jungfrau, ... socking the slopes of the famous mountain with red rubber hot-water bags full of ice cubes, the idea being to pulverize the ice for Pirate's banana frappes. With their nights' growths of beard, matted hair, bloodshot eyes, miasmata of foul breath, DeCoverley and Joaquin are wasted gods urging on a tardy glacier. Elsewhere in the maisonette, other drinking companions disentangle from blankets (one spilling wind from his, dreaming of a parachute), piss into bathroom sinks, look at themselves with dismay in concave shaving mirrors, slab water with no clear plan in mind onto heads of thinning hair, struggle into Sam Brownes, dub shoes against rain later in the day with hand muscles already weary of it, sing snatches of popular songs whose tunes they don't always know, lie, believing themselves warmed, in what patches of the new sunlight come between the mullions, begin tentatively to talk shop as a way of easing into whatever it is they'll have to be doing in less than an hour, lather necks and faces, yawn, pick their noses, search cabinets or bookcases for the hair of the dog that not without provocation and much prior conditioning bit them last night. Now there grows among all the rooms, replacing the night's old smoke, alcohol and sweat, the fragile, musaceous odor of Breakfast:flowery, permeating, surprising, more than the color of winter sunlight, taking over not so much through any brute pungency or volume as by the high intricacy to the weaving of its molecules, sharing the conjuror's secret by which-- though it is not often Death is told so clearly to fuck off--- the genetic chains prove labyrinthine enough to preserve some human face down ten or twenty generations. . . so the same assertion-through-structure allows this war morning's banana fragrance to meander, repossess, prevail. Is there any reason not to open every window, and let the kind scent blanket all Chelsea? As a spell, against falling objects. . . .

Madrid. It was that time, the story of Don Zana 'The Marionette,' he with the hair of cream-colored string, he with the large and empty laugh like a slice of watermelon, the one of the Tra-kay, tra-kay, tra-kay, tra-kay, tra-kay, tra on the tables, on the coffins. It was when there were geraniums on the balconies, sunflower-seed stands in the Moncloa, herds of yearling sheep in the vacant lots of the Guindalera. They were dragging their heavy wool, eating the grass among the rubbish, bleating to the neighborhood. Sometimes they stole into the patios; they ate up the parsley, a little green sprig of parsley, in the summer, in the watered shade of the patios, in the cool windows of the basements at foot level. Or they stepped on the spread-out sheets, undershirts, or pink chemises clinging to the ground like the gay shadow of a handsome young girl. Then, then was the story of Don Zana 'The Marionette.' Don Zana was a good-looking, smiling man, thin, with wide angular shoulders. His chest was a trapezoid. He wore a white shirt, a jacket of green flannel, a bow tie, light trousers, and shoes of Corinthian red on his little dancing feet. This was Don Zana 'The Marionette,' the one who used to dance on the tables and the coffins. He awoke one morning, hanging in the dusty storeroom of a theater, next to a lady of the eighteenth century, with many white ringlets and a cornucopia of a face. Don Zana broke the flower pots with his hand and he laughed at everything. He had a disagreeable voice, like the breaking of dry reeds; he talked more than anyone, and he got drunk at the little tables in the taverns. He would throw the cards into the air when he lost, and he didn't stoop over to pick them up. Many felt his dry, wooden slap; many listened to his odious songs, and all saw him dance on the tables. He liked to argue, to go visiting in houses. He would dance in the elevators and on the landings, spill ink wells, beat on pianos with his rigid little gloved hands. The fruitseller's daughter fell in love with him and gave him apricots and plums. Don Zana kept the pits to make her believe he loved her. The girl cried when days passed without Don Zana's going by her street. One day he took her out for a walk. The fruitseller's daughter, with her quince-lips, still bloodless, ingenuously kissed that slice-of-watermelon laugh. She returned home crying and, without saying anything to anyone, died of bitterness. Don Zana used to walk through the outskirts of Madrid and catch small dirty fish in the Manzanares. Then he would light a fire of dry leaves and fry them. He slept in a pension where no one else stayed. Every morning he would put on his bright red shoes and have them cleaned. He would breakfast on a large cup of chocolate and he would not return until night or dawn.