Redmond Quotes

A WOMAN SHOULD HAVE .... enough money within her control to move out and rent a place of her own even if she never wants to or needs to... A WOMAN SHOULD HAVE .... something perfect to wear if the employer or date of her dreams wants to see her in an hour... A WOMAN SHOULD HAVE ... a youth she's content to leave behind.... A WOMAN SHOULD HAVE .... a past juicy enough that she's looking forward to retelling it in her old age.... A WOMAN SHOULD HAVE ..... a set of screwdrivers, a cordless drill, and a black lace bra... A WOMAN SHOULD HAVE .... one friend who always makes her laugh... and one who lets her cry... A WOMAN SHOULD HAVE .... a good piece of furniture not previously owned by anyone else in her family... A WOMAN SHOULD HAVE .... eight matching plates, wine glasses with stems, and a recipe for a meal that will make her guests feel honored... A WOMAN SHOULD HAVE .... a feeling of control over her destiny... EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW... how to fall in love without losing herself.. EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW... HOW TO QUIT A JOB, BREAK UP WITH A LOVER, AND CONFRONT A FRIEND WITHOUT RUINING THE FRIENDSHIP... EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW... when to try harder... and WHEN TO WALK AWAY... EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW... that she can't change the length of her calves, the width of her hips, or the nature of her parents.. EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW... that her childhood may not have been perfect...but it's over... EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW... what she would and wouldn't do for love or more... EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW... how to live alone... even if she doesn't like it... EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW... whom she can trust, whom she can't, and why she shouldn't take it personally... EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW... where to go... be it to her best friend's kitchen table... or a charming inn in the woods... when her soul needs soothing... EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW... what she can and can't accomplish in a day... a month...and a year...

Every woman should have a youth she's content to leave behind and a past juicy enough that she's looking forward to telling it in her old age

A WOMAN SHOULD HAVE ..... a set of screwdrivers, a cordless drill, and a black lace bra...

A WOMAN SHOULD HAVE .... one friend who always makes her laugh... and one who lets her cry...

All the eggs a woman will every carry form in her ovaries while she is a four-month-old foetus in the womb of her mother. This means our cellular life as en egg begins in the womb of our grandmother. Each of us spent five months in our grandmother's womb, and she in turn formed within the womb of her grandmother. We vibrate to the rhythms of our mother's blood before she herself is born, and this pulse is the thread of blood that runs all the way back through the grandmothers to the first mother.

You wouldn’t believe the scope for mischief that the Beast of Redmond unintentionally builds into its Office software by letting it execute macros that have unlimited access to the hardware. I remember a particular post-prandial PowerPoint presentation where I was one of only two survivors (and the other wasn’t entirely human). However, this is the first time I’ve seen a Word document eat a man’s soul.

Lyon Redmond was either a man on a pilgrimage in search of salvation, or a man out to burn on the pyre of his own love for a woman. Regardless, he still suffered.

A cosmology that admits of only one male god limits women’s capacity to envision their full potential as human beings.

Ah, Lyon: the Achilles’ heel of this family. She had forgotten about Lyon, and about disappearing Redmonds.

The dangerously high level of stupidity surplus was once again the lead story in The Owl that morning. The reason for the crisis was clear: Prime Minister Redmond van de Poste and his ruling Commonsense Party had been discharging their duties with a reckless degree of responsibility that bordered on inspired sagacity. Instead of drifting from one crisis to the next and appeasing the nation with a steady stream of knee-jerk legislation and headline-grabbing but arguably pointless initiatives, they had been resolutely building a raft of considered long-term plans that concentrated on unity, fairness and tolerance. It was a state of affairs deplored by Mr. Alfredo Traficcone, leader of the opposition Prevailing Wind Party, who wanted to lead the nation back to the safer ground of uniformed stupidity.

Babies are such fascinating creatures," said Anne dreamily. "They are what I heard somebody at Redmond call 'terrific bundles of potentialities.' Think of it, Katherine . . . Homer must have been a baby once . . . a baby with dimples and great eyes full of light . . . he couldn't have been blind then, of course.

I know what you think of me, Miles. I know what you--have thought of me. But I have a heart. I do have a heart. I just cannot afford to use it. Don't you see? Why can't you see this? Whereas you--may play at all of this as much as you like. There will always be someone for you. And that is the difference. I cannot afford to use my heart. And you--you choose not to use yours.' - Cynthia Brightley to Miles Redmond

I have learned that everyone else in the world is boring except you.

...[the birds] were the yellow of all yellows, the kind of yellow that every other yellow secretly wishes to be.

Before him and since he’d gone away, she’d either contracted or ever-so-subtly contorted her very being to accommodate nearly everybody else. She was only ever wholly herself with him.

Women need the archetypal image of a Divine Female. We need to reconnect with the inherent sacredness of woman as creator and nourisher, rather than accept a vision of ourselves as less-than-divine inferiors.

Miss Redmond is aging, and will never marry, and will die smelling of attics.

then why sell?" James had asked. "have to," Redmond said. "if I want to get married and have children and live in this city, I have to." "since when do you want to get married and have kids?" James asked. "since now. Life gets boring when you're middle-aged. You can't keep doing the same thing. You look like an asshole. You ever notice that?" Redmond had asked.

Because drumming was recognized as an ancient source and symbol of the power of female technicians of the sacred, drumming was banned. Henceforth divinity was to be exclusively masculine. The suppression of women was directly linked to the suppression of the goddess.” - Layne Redmond, When the Drummers were Women

Redmond Howard, a politically aware witness to the Rising and a critic of the rebels, wrote in its aftermath: 'There never was, I believe, an Irish crime -- if crime it can be called -- which had not its roots in an English folly.

I thought it would be a good thing to follow John Redmond’s words. I thought for my mother’s sake, her gentle soul, for the sake of my own children, I might go out and fight for to save Europe so that we might have the Home Rule in Ireland in the upshot. I came out to fight for a country that doesn’t exist, and now, Willie, mark my words, it never will.

It is often said that the first sound we hear in the womb is our mother's heartbeat. Actually, the first sound to vibrate our newly developed hearing apparatus is the pulse of our mother's blood through her veins and arteries. We vibrate to that primordial rhythm even before we have ears to hear. Before we were conceived, we existed in part as an egg in our mother's ovary. All the eggs a woman will ever carry form in her ovaries while she is a four-month-old fetus in the womb of her mother. This means our cellular life as an egg begins in the womb of our grandmother. Each of us spent five months in our grandmother's womb and she in turn formed within the womb of her grandmother. We vibrate to the rhythms of our mother's blood before she herself is born. And this pulse is the thread of blood that runs all the way back through the grandmothers to the first mother. We all share the blood of the first mother. We are truly children of one blood.

Protect our children from failure, is impossible; Teach them how to get up can make the difference

It’s…” She couldn’t finish. “Don’t try, Miss Redmond,” he agreed, shading his eyes. “There are honestly no suitable words, so we shall not fault you for failing to find them. Nothing makes a man feel more like God than sailing a ship over the sea with no land in sight. And nothing makes a man feel less like a God than clinging to a shred of ship exploded by lightning in a storm.

Here was a group of guys that would look right at home at a table in the cafeteria of the Googleplex, the Microsoft Redmond campus, or a science fiction convention, but they were in Medieval England, dressed as wizards, and they were all looking at Martin.

May I see your dance card?” “Don’t you believe me?” She presented it to him with a flourish. He ran his fingers down the list of names. “Hmm . . . Waterburn? Bastard. D’Andre. Definitely a worthless bastard. Lord Camber, a thoroughgoing bastard. Lord Michaelson? Bastard. Peter Cheswick? Bast—” She snatched it from him, laughing. “I wouldn’t dance a waltz with you, anyway, Lord Dryden.” “No?” “You might accidentally lock eyes with Lisbeth Redmond, stumble, and fling me across the room to avoid crushing my feet.

There’s an old saying in the relational database world: on a long enough timeline, all fields become optional.

Oh, I’m bowed, but unbroken.

I'm a woman. I understand this. What's the reason for it to hold me back?

People often say to me: Oy! Get out of my garden.

no one finds a braggart wise. And once I no longer thought of listening as “waiting to talk,” I began to have more meaningful conversations.

Charlie Redmond drank alone, but for his demons, at a crowded table at the back.

Charlie Redmond? This man here? The only man I ever

Eli Redmond is the breeze that makes a hurricane form in the Atlantic.

Very well,” she said after a moment. “Here is how I see that loyalty and love are the same: You would lay down your life for someone for reasons of both love and loyalty. But loyalty implies dependence, doesn’t it? For instance, dogs are loyal. It also implies indebtedness. For instance, servants are loyal.” “It also implies integrity. And honor. And—” “Steadfastness,” she completed, with only a hint of irony. “So you see them as absolutes then, Miss Redmond? Love means to be willing to die for someone, and loyalty perhaps the same?” “How can they be otherwise?

He began to stand, and saw Lyon stiffen, poised to do whatever he needed to do. He, like Lyon, could throw himself on a pyre, too. Because fire cleansed. She’d won, and he’d lost. It had stopped mattering. Her happiness was indistinguishable from his own. No matter what became of him, he wanted her to know he loved her. “You’d best get out of here, Redmond. Your secret is safe with me.” Lyon’s eyes flared in wary surprise. He froze. And his smile, when it came, was slow, and crooked, and he looked very like Lavay when Lavay was being insufferably knowing. “Ah. You do love her more than life. Splendid. And that, my dear Lord Flint, is what I came here today to discover.” Whatever he felt was between him and Violet. “Go before I change my mind, Redmond.

Most of us fear that in growing old, we’ll become a shell of ourselves. But, of course, it’s the youthful versions of ourselves that are our shells; we must leave them behind like a snakeskin. We must grow out of ourselves to grow beyond our old limits, or else risk being suffocated by the sediment of our own history.

With apologies to the folks in Redmond, I’ll end on another Microsoft joke because it makes the point well (a point that applies everywhere, not just at Microsoft): A helicopter was flying around above Seattle when a malfunction disabled all of its electronic navigation and communications equipment. The clouds were so thick that the pilot couldn’t tell where he was. Finally, the pilot saw a tall building, flew toward it, circled, and held up a handwritten sign that said WHERE AM I? in large letters. People in the tall building quickly responded to the aircraft, drawing their own large sign: YOU ARE IN A HELICOPTER. The pilot smiled, looked at his map, determined the route to Sea-Tac Airport, and landed safely. After they were on the ground, the copilot asked the pilot how he had done it. “I knew it had to be the Microsoft building,” he said, “because they gave me a technically correct but completely useless answer.

Which was why he reflexively turned when a flash of iridescence caught his eye. His first thought was: Morpho rhetenor Helena. The extraordinary tropical butterfly with wings of shifting colors: blues, lavenders, greens. It proved to be a woman’s skirt. The color was blue, but by the light of the legion of overhead candles, he saw purples and even greens shivering in its weave. A bracelet of pale stones winked around one wrist, a circlet banded her dark head. The chandelier struck little beams from that, too. She’s altogether too shiny for a woman, he decided, and began to turn away. Which was when she tipped her face up into the light. Everything stopped. The beat of his heart, the pump of his lungs, the march of time. Seconds later, thankfully, it all resumed. Much more violently than previously. And then absurd notions roman-candled in his mind. His palms ached to cradle her face—it was a kitten’s face, broad and fair at the brow, stubborn at the chin. She had kitten’s eyes, too: large and a bit tilted and surely they weren’t actually the azure of calm southern seas? Surely he, Miles Redmond, hadn’t entertained such a florid thought? Her eyebrows were wicked: fine, slanted, very dark. Her hair was probably brown, but it was as though he’d never learned the word “brown.” Burnished. Silk. Copper. Azure. Delicate. Angel. Hallelujah. Suddenly these were the only words he knew.

For you see, Captain Flint, I, too, never settle for less than what I want. Or never thought I possibly could. I’m a Redmond. If only you truly understood what this means. So I set out to reorder the world in a way I thought would make me worthy of her love. But my quest has changed me in ways I never anticipated, and I’m not the man who once loved that girl. There’s much more to my journey yet. And here’s a bitter irony: I’ve found in becoming heroic, in becoming worthy of her, I’ve painted myself into an untenable corner. I’ve more work to do to prove someone’s innocence or guilt.

Cynthia wondered how anyone could withstand this sort of happiness. But no doubt no one had ever before been as happy as she was at this moment, so there couldn't possibly be any precedent. She would have to show them all how to do it by surviving it and marrying Miles Redmond and living to a ripe old age.

Did you ever get a whistling-type pain out the left lung, Mr. Redmond? Is it one of those sinister-type pains that you’ve never had before, Mr. Hearne? ’Tis, yeah. Give it time, it’ll be like an old pal to you. Maurice leans in to his friend, and he speaks with fear and very quietly now. I’m fifty-one years to fucken Jesus, Charlie.

They merely acknowledge human urges, erotic and monetary, and get on with it. Canadian author Mont Redmond put it best when he wrote that, in Thailand, “Anything too big to be swept under the carpet is automatically counted as furniture.” The Thais might not like the furniture, might constantly be bumping into it, but they don’t deny its existence.

At the end, as at the beginning, stands the archetypal power of the Divine Feminine—the goddess. She is our future as she was our past. With her drum in hand, playing her sacramental rhythms, women can once again take their place in the world as technicians of the sacred. In the pulse of my drum, in the beat of my heart, I erect an alter to her forever.

I want nothing. Oh wait, I want you to get the couch out of my office, and then after that I want and need nothing from you again.

[W]hy should you wait for a knight in shining armor to give you a ride when you can afford to buy the horse yourself?

Neither of the boys understand what's going on," The driver's mother noted. "Who does?" the young poet asked himself.

It’s not right to spend money you don’t have to perpetuate a lie about who you are.

So, as women, we’ve got to be pretty damn amazing to realize early on that physical perfection is neither achievable nor useful, and that all that fixing can be toxic.

Making peace with my past was the first step; being grateful for it was the second. Now, at last, I can appreciate the woman those experiences created: me.

I learned not to invest too much in a relationship before I really know how the other person feels.

I now believe in growing old gratefully, not gracefully. I haven’t found the secret to life, or love, or eternal youth. But I do know now that youth is not the blossom but the bud, and that though one cannot always be young and wild, if you are willing to learn, to grow, to outrun the mileposts of your own wildest dreams, you can always be winsome and lucky, lovely and free.

Love isn’t always enough. It’s a hard lesson because we’re raised to believe that it is—it’s in every story we hear. But just because you love somebody and they love you back doesn’t mean your relationship makes sense or that it’s a good one for you both to be in. Having chemistry with someone is important, yes, but the most important thing is that the person you’re with makes you happy.

You know when you’re in yoga and you’re looking around, thinking, Wow, I wish I were that flexible, or How come she can hold that pose? Well, my friend has a saying: “Stay on your own mat.” Not physically, but mentally. In life, we’re all made differently: our families, our frames, our personalities and talents. Appreciate how you were made, and stay on your mat. That’s where happiness lies.

It’s rare that I have a boyfriend- that only happens if I fall in love. I’ve noticed that people who are never in a relationship just to be in a relationship keep their childlike spark because they don’t end up settling for things that make them unhappy, and they never feel as if they took less than what was out there for them. So for me, being single is what I do, and falling in love is the exception.

It was back in 2050 when Governor Schultz decided that all the Barrens needed was better lighting. At the cost of uncounted millions of nuyen, the city engineers—with Lone Star and Metroplex Guard units running cover—had installed high-intensity carbon arc lights everywhere they could get to safely. The residents of the Barrens had responded in typically warm Redmond manner by shooting most of them out.

There they clambered onto a radiator and peered out the high window through their tears to watch a car leaving with their baby. The marks on the radiator from their shoes were visible up to as late as 2017.

Love is like a loaded musket,” he mused. “And yet it’s available to everyone. It’s always . . .” He mimed thrusting out a gun. “‘Here you are! Try not to kill yourself or others with it.’ They oughtn’t allow young people near it.

If there is a single ‘smoking gun’ piece of evidence that destroys all the excuses the nuns make, such as underfunding, lack of understanding of hygiene, and victim blaming, then the Castlepollard mortality rates are that evidence.

I think I’ve lived long enough to learn that it’s not where I come from but where I’m going that matters. Others and what they’ve done to me do not define who I am. I am the one who decides how my character is shaped . . . for better or for worse.

I always say I was one woman before his death and have been another ever since. The one before thought she could fix anything if she just worked hard enough. The woman after was forced to accept that sometimes life has plans for us and our loved ones that are far, far beyond our grasp.

One of the best pieces of advice I’ve ever received was from my grandmother, who said, “A woman always has to keep something of her own, even if it’s a jar of quarters.” The other was from my agent, another wise woman, who told me twenty years ago: “You don’t have to tell everything you know.

No. 2’s infamous opening line is a double gambit: the Village does not really want information, of course, only obedience. (From their point of view, information is an exchange-value, not a use-value). In fact, it is No. 6 who truly wants information: information on who No. 1 is, where the Village really is, which side runs it, and how it might be possible to escape.

But I have learned that love is the one area where women should give themselves a break and cut bait. Men are better at that—if a guy isn’t feeling great about the relationship, he will leave and not look back. As women, we’re more analytical and more accommodating. We tend to hang in there and try harder. But if you’re with a dude who’s texting other girls, bye-bye.

you were thirty, you were a failure,” she told the audience. “And now a lot of young women think that if they aren’t seriously successful before thirty, they’re a failure. So I want to say to you that there is life and dreams and surprises after thirty—and forty, and fifty, and sixty, and seventy-seven! Believe me, life is one long surprise. And you can’t plan it, but you can prepare.

It is often said that the first sound we hear in the womb is our mother’s heartbeat. Actually, the first sound to vibrate our newly developed hearing apparatus is the pulse of our mother’s blood through her veins and arteries. We vibrate to that primordial rhythm even before we have ears to hear. Before we were conceived, we existed in part as an egg in our mother’s ovary. All the eggs a woman will ever carry form in her ovaries while she is a four-month-old fetus in the womb of her mother. This means our cellular life as an egg begins in the womb of our grandmother. Each of us spent five months in our grandmother’s womb and she in turn formed within the womb of her grandmother. We vibrate to the rhythms of our mother’s blood before she herself is born …. Layne Redmond, When the Drummers Were Women

Of course!” he said. “I’d love to chat, but I’ve got to get this email out.” He grabbed some headphones from around his neck, put them over his ears, and returned to his laptop. And get this—his headphones weren’t even plugged in! They were those sound-canceling ones! The whole ride to Redmond he never spoke to me again. Now, Audrey, for the past five years we always figured Bernadette was the ghastly one. Turns out her husband is as rude and antisocial as she is! I was so miffed that when I got to work, I Googled Bernadette Fox. (Something I can’t believe I’ve waited until now to do, considering our unhealthy obsession with her!) Everyone knows Elgin Branch is team leader of Samantha 2 at Microsoft. But when I looked her up, nothing appeared. The only Bernadette Fox is some architect in California. I checked all combinations of her name—Bernadette Branch, Bernadette Fox-Branch. But our Bernadette, Bee’s mom, doesn’t exist as far as the Internet is concerned.

How could I sacrifice her for the sake of Charlotte? I was getting tired of Charlotte, with her intact virtue and her tidy ways. Wearing her was like wearing a hair shirt, she made me itchy, I wanted her to fall into a mud puddle, have menstrual cramps, sweat, burp, fart. Even her terrors were too pure, her faceless murderers, her corridors, her mazes and forbidden doors. Perhaps in the new life, I thought, the life to come, I would be less impressed with capes and more with holes in stockings, hangnails, body odors and stomach problems. Maybe I should try to write a real novel, about someone who worked in an office and had tawdry, unsatisfying affairs. But that was impossible, it was against my nature. I longed for happy endings, I needed the feeling of release when everything turned out right and I could scatter joy like rice all over my characters and dismiss them into bliss. Redmond would kiss Charlotte so that her eyeballs rolled right back into her head, and then they could both vanish. When would they be joyful enough, when would my life be my own?

blast could see the lethal, glowing plume from miles away. It was certainly seen on the Microsoft campus in Redmond, just ten miles away, and as the killer winds began to blow, death and destruction soon followed. It was only a matter of time. There would be no escape, and no place to hide. Surely first responders would emerge from surrounding states and communities, eager to help in any way they possibly could. But how would they get into the hot zones? How would they communicate? Where would they take the dead? Where would they take the dying? The power grid went down instantly. All communications went dark. The electromagnetic pulse set off by the warhead’s detonation had fried all electronic circuitry for miles. The electrical systems of most motor vehicles in Seattle—from fire trucks and ambulances to police cars and military Humvees, not to mention most helicopters and fixed-wing aircraft—were immobilized completely or, at the very least, severely damaged. Most cell phones, pagers, PDAs, TVs, and radios were rendered useless as well, as were even the backup power systems in hospitals and other emergency facilities throughout the blast radius. The same was true in Washington, D.C., and New

sure what happened after the accident was client-protected,” he told Mazzone. By their silence, “Markham and Gargan were taking the big fall to protect Ted Kennedy.” Paul Redmond doubted the lawyer-client issue would even arise at the inquest. “People were walking around Boston whaling the bee-jesus out of Paul Markham and Joe Gargan for not reporting the accident—that was so unfair. Here were two guys, good lawyers and fine men, made to look like stooges or worse by the press.” Gargan had told him he could not have reported an accident in which a driver faced a possible manslaughter charge, Redmond said. “It’s no secret Joe was a dear friend. When I left the U.S. Attorney’s office, Paul Markham took my spot.” A week before the inquest, Redmond bumped into Gargan in the elevator of the building in which both had law offices. The Boiler Room girls were “upstairs,” Redmond said. “They haven’t seen you in a long time. I think they’d like to say hello.” Gargan went straight to Redmond’s office for “a nice reunion, a pleasant chat. Very friendly.” There was no discussion about the inquest. Gargan did not want to become involved in the preparation of anybody else’s testimony. As one of two persons at the party who wasn’t “a bit bombed,” Gargan’s memory of the occasion was “clear as a bell.” So it was Gargan’s description of the party that, along with the Senator’s two public versions of the accident, would provide the scenario for inquest testimony. If Gargan testified to the Senator’s attempt to cover up his involvement in the accident as the reason he had failed to report it until the next day, he could blow the entire lid off the case. But that prospect became moot when a writ of certiorari was filed on Tuesday, September 2, asking the Massachusetts Supreme Judicial Court to determine whether “errors of law” had been made in Judge Boyle’s ruling on the conduct of the scheduled inquest in re: Mary Jo Kopechne. Justice Paul Reardon scheduled a hearing for three o’clock. Notified an appeal had been filed,

Unlike many of her sister goddesses, Cybele did not lose her power to the gods of an invading people. Her vanquisher was already within the city walls. In the shadow of her temples, a new Eastern mystery cult gained strength. It stemmed from a monotheistic patriarchal tradition and rejected the notion of female deities, female prophets, female equality. Its devotees were bound to the exclusive worship of one male god. With the ascendancy of Christianity, Cybele’s great temple in Rome was destroyed. On the exact spot where the Phyrgianum once stood, Christians built the basilica of the Vatican. This was the beginning of the end of the ancient tradition of spiritually powerful women drummers.

All right, get out a bowl,” I told her. “It has to be a beautiful bowl.” “Why?” “Because then the whole experience will be more pleasurable. Pick one you like.

think if faced with my own death I would find it relatively easy to be comforted by the gospel of grace – salvation in the work of Jesus, it is in life where I find it hard and I fail to rest in Him and His work.

The most direct critique [in the TV series The Prisoner] of what might be called the politics-industry of late capitalism, however, is undoubtedly [the episode] “Free for All”, both the funeral dirge for the national mass party and the unofficial founding charter of the New Left. In many ways, “Free for All” is the logical complement to the visual innovations and luminous mediatic strategies of “A., B. & C.”; whereas the latter identifies the space of the editing room as a new kind of cultural zone, and thus transforms a certain visual recursion into a protomorphic video library of images, the former concentrates not on the image per se but on the messages and texts transmitted by such—or what Derrida would identify as the thematic of a dissemination which is never quite identical with what is being disseminated. But where deconstruction and post-structuralism promptly sealed off this potentially explosive insight behind the specialized ghettos of linguistics or ontological philosophy, and thus unwittingly perpetuated precisely the authoritarian monopoly over theory authorized by the ontologies in the first place, the most insightful intellectuals of the New Left (most notably, Adorno and Sartre) would insist on the necessarily mediated nature of this dissemination, i.e. the fact that the narrative-industries of late capitalism are hardly innocent bystanders in the business of accumulation, but play an indispensable role in creating new markets, restructuring old ones, and ceaselessly legitimating, transacting and regulating the sway of the commodity form over society as a whole.

Einiges tut sich aber immerhin diesbezüglich. Im Stadtpark von Redmond habe ich ein Zeichen entdeckt. Der Park ist schön, mit reicher, relativ frei wachsender Vegetation, irgendwie als Versuch, einen so natürlichen Raum wie nur irgend möglich nachzugestalten. Es wurden auch ein paar Wildentenpaare gebracht, aber deren Schicksal ist recht unsicher. Groß war meine Überraschung, als ich auf einer großen Tafel am See, auf dem die betreffenden Enten ausgesetzt worden waren, in Kurzfassung eine „Prosopopöie der Enten“ lesen konnte. (Die Prosopopöie ist bekanntlich die rhetorische Figur, mit deren Hilfe man Gegenstände oder Tiere anstelle der Menschen sprechen lässt.) Was erzählte nun diese Tafel? Aus dem angeblichen Entendiskurs, der von einem recht stupiden Hirn verfasst worden war, erfuhren wir Folgendes: „Füttert mich, bitte, nicht! Füttert ihr mich, werde ich Mist machen. Mache ich Mist, verschmutze ich den Park. Verschmutze ich den Park, werde ich eingeschläfert.“ Klingt nach Blödsinn, aber die Geschichte hat eine wahre Grundlage. Man ist irgendwie zu dem Schluss gekommen, dass die Entenexkremente giftig sind(!) und eine Gefahr für die Bürger darstellen, die im Park spazieren gehen. Die von einem Verantwortungsträger – die gibt es immer und überall – vorgeschlagene Endlösung war die Vergasung. Also die Enten würden eingefangen und an einem abgelegenen Ort mit einem tödlichen Gift „eingeschläfert“ werden. Also put to sleep, wenn die armen Vögel nicht in der Lage waren sauberen Mist zu machen. Ich frage mich nun, ob unsere Hausenten für den rumänischen Bauern denn nicht genauso giftig sind. Ja, was für einen Mist machen diese denn? (Aus "Adio, adio, patria mea...")

The political version of this was the seemingly clearcut choice before the New Left, to either transform the Establishment from within (the Long March through the institutions envisioned by the Prague Spring reformers and Western social democrats alike), or else to instigate an actual revolution in the streets. History teaches us that both options were illusory; national social democracy could temporarily flourish in the hothouse export-platform economies of Central Europe, but a resurgent neoliberalism was about to strangle the effective global demand this model depended on and thus reactivate the latent class tensions smoothed over by the golden age of state-monopoly Keynesianism; meanwhile the national-democratic and anti-colonial revolutions in the Second and Third Worlds could defeat the US Empire’s rampaging armies with guerilla tactics, but could hardly be expected to counter the far more insidious enemy of falling raw materials prices on world markets. Neither international solidarity actions nor neo-national political disruptions were, by themselves, really capable of challenging the henceforth global habitus of multinational capitalism; only truly transnational labor and political movements would be able to do that.

Secondly, there’s no question but that the speculative drive of the post-structuralisms and postmodernisms harmonized, on some deep level, with the real life financial speculations of Wall Street. At their best, the postmodernisms were the critical meditation and reflection upon those speculations (as with Jameson’s classic essay on postmodernism); at their worst, they were little more than the media-chatter of academic superstars shielded from the grim realities of economic austerity, skyrocketing tuition and rampant privatization – realities which had begun to undercut the very existence of autonomous national literary, philosophical and cultural departments, as tenured and full-time positions were slashed to make way for vast pools of contingent and adjunct academic workers.

…the end of the Cold War has brought not prosperity for all but a pitiless economic struggle for pole-position on the food chain of information capitalism. The neoliberalism and neocolonialism of the 1990s are the direct heir of the Manchester liberalism and colonialism of the 1890s, the only difference being that whereas Victorian rentiers extracted their Imperial textile-rents from the labor of the Great Unwashed, their postmodern analogues on Wall Street speculate on the viewing-rents of the Great Unwatched.

We vibrate to the rhythms of our mother's blood before she herself is born...

It was as if the two of them had been in a shipwreck, and where Daniel had chosen to kick and stay afloat in the hope of being rescued, Sarah had just given up and sacrificed herself to the sea, sinking below the waves and allowing her waterlogged skirts to drag her down to the bottom, choosing oblivion over struggle.

Yes master.

it was understood that the word “Redmond” would be treated in their house rather as though someone had silently broken wind in company. Its occurrence was distasteful but occasionally unavoidable, and while it could be politely ignored, it was certainly not encouraged or enjoyed.

A few days later, we waited anxiously in the living room for the estate attorney, Mrs. Redmond, to come by. As we sat on the couch, my bedroom door creaked open and a tangle of vines crept across the floor. I jumped up and shoved them back inside, closing the door

to

Perhaps it wasn’t a detrimental thing to examine one’s beliefs from time to time, but it did make for uncomfortable introspection that often resulted in personal growth one had never sought in the first place.

Dad was angry now. “Why can’t we do anything nice as a family?” “We can,” I replied. “It should just be something we all want to do.” “Therapy?” Redmond suggested.

It’s easier to get acquainted in a graveyard than at Redmond, I believe.

My hope and prayer for all who read this book is a reformation—that an army of African-American men will make their way back into the church, back into the leadership of the church, back into leading a change in the church to be and do what it is called to be and do, so that we may have power to do good for our people, and people all over the world, in a way that no government or service organization has been or will be able to do, and that no one will be able to take away.

It reminded me of second grade when our teacher said each of us had a skeleton inside us; you know, to hold up your body. I’d been watching some horror flick with witches and werewolves and skeletons and stuff, and it absolutely terrorized me, Lar, because I couldn’t figure out how I was going to get away from a monster that lived inside me. But Mr. Nak kept at it. “So you have the answer. It ain’t about Redmond, it’s about you. When you come face-to-face with this here Jesse James of a football coach, you tell your pain-in-the-butt cousin, Fear, he can come along if he wants to, but you’re gonna take care of binniss once an’ for all, no matter what he does or says, because you’re by God fed up with gettin’ jerked around. His presence ain’t gonna change your actions one whit.

He just hadn’t expected to have his equilibrium roughly jostled by a pair of blue eyes this evening. He couldn’t remember ever seeing eyes quite that color before. So achingly lovely they made him restless. He felt oddly as though he needed to do something about them.

North-south streets are called “avenues” with the location tag at the end; for instance, 24th Avenue NW or 32nd Avenue South. Roads that run east-west are “streets” with the location tag at the beginning; for instance, NE 49th Street or SW Spokane Street.

As the 1970s drew to a close, and Commodore, Tandy, Altair, and Apple began to emerge from the sidelines, PARC director Bert Sutherland asked Larry Tesler to assess what some analysts were already predicting to be the coming era of “hobby and personal computers.” “I think that the era of the personal computer is here,” Tesler countered; “PARC has kept involved in the world of academic computing, but we have largely neglected the world of personal computing which we helped to found.”41 His warning went largely unheeded. Xerox Corporation’s parochial belief that computers need only talk to printers and filing cabinets and not to each other meant that the “office of the future” remained an unfulfilled promise, and in the years between 1978 and 1982 PARC experienced a dispersal of core talent that rivals the flight of Greek scholars during the declining years of Byzantium: Charles Simonyi brought the Alto’s Bravo text editing program to Redmond, Washington, where it was rebooted as Microsoft Word; Robert Metcalf used the Ethernet protocol he had invented at PARC to found the networking giant, 3Com; John Warnock and Charles Geschke, tiring of an unresponsive bureaucracy, took their InterPress page description language and founded Adobe Systems; Tesler himself brought the icon-based, object-oriented Smalltalk programming language with him when he joined the Lisa engineering team at Apple, and Tim Mott, his codeveloper of the Gypsy desktop interface, became one of the founders of Electronic Arts—five startups that would ultimately pay off the mortgages and student loans of many hundreds of industrial, graphic, and interaction designers, and provide the tools of the trade for untold thousands of others.

It’s no secret that traffic in the Seattle area is a challenge. The Eastside may be worse.

Stored procedures can offer huge performance advantages for huge architectural costs. You may avoid streaming thousands of rows to a client application, but you have also bound your application code to this database. The decision to use stored procedures should not be arrived at lightly.

Since this debate was going nowhere, I decided to end it with a little bit of class. I stuck my tongue out and blessed Redmond with a loud raspberry. Despite the seriousness of the situation, Redmond couldn’t help but laugh.

Computer science increasingly relies on its private corporate patrons who apply their own closed systems of peer review and criticism, with occasional results thrown over the wall. The closed walls of Redmond or Mountain View enable old-fashioned patronage of nature's secrets. The objectivity and scientific status of computer science is a chimera: we cannot stand on the shoulders of giants in computer science, for they simply refuse to let us.

If you accomplish nothing in life... do not tell your friends... they expected it. If you accomplish success in life... find new friends,"... Redmond Herring

You believed in me,' he said slowly. 'You trusted me.' 'Of course I did. That, and I love you more than life itself.' She saw her words enter him like cupid's arrow. He closed his eyes swiftly, as if bracing against an onslaught of emotion. He mouthed something that might have been 'Hallelujah.' Then he opened them again, as if he couldn't bear not to see her in the aftermath of those words. 'Say it again.' 'I love you.' Those magical powerful words that she never dreamed she'd be able to say to anyone. And look, look what it did to Jonathan Redmond's face when she said them. What a humbling power she held. He recovered, and smiled a slow satisfied smile. 'Of course you love me. How could you help it?

This man offered her forever. And if Prescott had asked a month ago...If he'd asked the day before she'd encountered Jonathan Redmond at midnight outside the Duke of Greyfolk's house... Ah, but she was a different woman now. One kiss had changed that. And a ballroom orgasm.

Sesame Crackers We love crackers in my house, where they serve as both a tasty snack and a baby weaning tool! They are so easy to make, I just take a portion off my pizza dough when I’m getting ready to make pizza and roll out the cracker shapes. The boys love cutting the crackers into fun shapes and munching on them when they’re still warm. serves 4 for lunch ¼ quantity of pizza dough • 100g sesame seeds flour for sprinkling to serve cheese and sliced tomato or hummus or tabbouleh Method Preheat a fan oven to 210°C and line a baking tray with greaseproof paper. Sprinkle a clean, flat surface with flour. Roll out the dough as flat as you can get it. Sprinkle the sesame seeds on top and roll again so that they are embedded into the dough. Cut the dough into shapes and place on the lined baking tray. Bake in the oven until golden brown. The time it takes will depend on how thinly you roll your dough. Make sure your oven light is on and watch the baking tray closely. Mine take about 7 minutes to bake. Cool on a wire rack and then serve with your chosen topping. The crackers will keep in a dry airtight container for up to three days.