Roger Waters Quotes

Wish You Were Here So, so you think you can tell Heaven from Hell, Blue skys from pain. Can you tell a green field From a cold steel rail? A smile from a veil? Do you think you can tell? And did they get you to trade Your heros for ghosts? Hot ashes for trees? Hot air for a cool breeze? Cold comfort for change? And did you exchange A walk on part in the war For a lead role in a cage? How I wish, how I wish you were here. We're just two lost souls Swimming in a fish bowl, Year after year, Running over the same old ground. What have we found? The same old fears. Wish you were here.

I'm in competition with myself and I'm losing.

We're just two lost souls Swimming in a fish bowl, Year after year, Running over the same old ground. What have we found? The same old fears. Wish you were here.

ashes or diamonds foe or friend we're all equal in the end

Roger stooped, picked up a stone, aimed and threw it at Henry-threw it to miss. The stone, that token of preposterous time, bounced five yards to Henry's right and fell in the water. Roger gathered a handful of stones and began to throw them. Yet there was a space round Henry, perhaps six yards in diameter, into which he dare not throw. Here, invisible yet strong, was the taboo of the old life. Round the squatting child was the protection of parents and school and policemen and the law. Roger was conditioned by a civilization that knew nothing of him and was in ruins.

Did you see the frightened ones, Did you hear the falling bombs, Did you ever wonder why we had to run for shelter in the promise of a brave new world unfurlled beaneath the clear blue skies. Good bye blue skies.

CAN YOU FREE YOURSELF ENOUGH TO BE ABLE TO EXPERIENCE THE REALITY OF LIFE AS IT GOES ON BEFORE YOU AND WITH YOU, AND AS YOU GO ON AS PART OF IT? OR NOT? BECAUSE IF YOU CAN’T YOU STAND ON SQUARE ONE, UNTIL YOU DIE.

Not the torturer will scare me, nor the body's final fall, nor the barrels of death's rifles, nor the shadows on the wall, nor the night when to the ground the last dim star of pain, is hurled but the blind indifference of a merciless, unfeeling world.

Hanging on in Quiet Desperation is the English Way

Doctor Doctor what is wrong with me This supermarket life is getting long What is the heart life of a colour TV What is the shelf life of a teenage queen

Imagine navigating uncharted waters with a compass calibrated for the unpredictable.

All that you touch All that you see All that you taste All you feel. All that you love All that you hate All you distrust All you save. All that you give All that you deal All that you buy, beg, borrow or steal. All you create All you destroy All that you do All that you say. All that you eat And everyone you meet All that you slight And everyone you fight. All that is now All that is gone All that's to come and everything under the sun is in tune but the sun is eclipsed by the moon. "There is no dark side of the moon really. Matter of fact it's all dark.

Would you like to watch TV or get between the sheets and contemplate this violent freeway, would you like something to eat would you like to learn to fly would ya, would you like to see me try

Were we ever that beautiful?” “You still are,” Roger told him. “Maybe we should make the most of the hurricane.” “This was definitely foreplay.” “It’s like Tumblr, the live version.” Dave chuckled. “True. But I did not see it coming.” “Maybe hurricanes affect gaydar?” “How much did you have to drink?” “Enough to pretend we can still have sex like that.

How can you have any pudding if you don't eat your meat?

All alone, or in two's, The ones who really love you Walk up and down outside the wall. Some hand in hand And some gathered together in bands. The bleeding hearts and artists Make their stand. And when they've given you their all Some stagger and fall, after all it's not easy Banging your heart against some mad bugger's wall.

money so they say is the root of all evil today

When you enter the water, something, like a metamorphosis happens. Leaving behind the land, you go through the looking glass surface and enter a new world in which survival, not ambition or desire, is the dominant aim.

In the dark, Dave reached for Roger's hand as they watched the shadowed lovemaking. "Were we ever that beautiful?" "You still are," Roger told him. "Maybe we should make the most of the hurricane." "This is definitely foreplay." "It's like Tumblr, the live version.

I must look for the Lord's reflection in the sea; otherwise all I see is water.

Wish You Were Here" We're just two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl, year after year, Running over the same old ground. What have we found? The same old fears. Wish you were here.

And I think,” she continues, “that those who venture, traveling through the water toward their song, must be very lonely, too. I think lonely creatures ache for each other because who else can understand but someone who feels the same dark, black abyss?

Beyond the River of the Blessed, there we sat down, yea, we wept, when we remembered Avalon. Our swords were shattered in our hands and we hung our shields on the oak tree. The silver towers were fallen, into a sea of blood. How many miles to Avalon? None, I say, and all. The silver towers are fallen. …waters,where the stars shone like bonfires at night and the green of day was always the green of spring. Youth, love, beauty-I knew them in Avalon. Proud steeds, bright metal, soft lips, dark ale. Honor…

And when they found our shadows Grouped around the TV sets They ran down every lead They repeated every test They checked out all the data on their lists And then the alien anthropologists Admitted they were still perplexed But on eliminating every other reason For our sad demise They logged the only explanation left This species has amused itself to death

No dark sarcasm, in the classroom.

Investors long for steady waters, but paradoxically, the opportunities are richest when markets turn turbulent.

[Roger] Waters has suggested that empathy is the central theme of all the band[Pink Floyd]'s classic, mature works beginning with [the album] Meddle. Waters singles out the following lines from "Echoes": Strangers passing in the street / By chance two seperate glances meet / And I am you and what I see is me.

I have many names, and none of them matter. Names are not important. To speak is to name names, but to speak is not important. A thing happens once that has never happened before. Seeing it, a man looks upon reality. He cannot tell others what he has seen. Others wish to know, however, so the question him saying, 'What is it like, this thing you have seen?' So he tries to tell them. Perhaps he has seen the very first fire in the world. He tells them, 'It is red, like a poppy, but through it dance other colors. It has no form, like water, flowing everywhere. It is warm, like the sun of summer, only warmer. It exists for a time upon a piece of wood, and then the wood is gone, as though it were eaten, leaving behind that which is black and can be sifted like sand. When the wood is gone, it too is gone.' Therefore, the hearers must think reality is like a poppy, like water, like the sun, like that which eats and excretes. They think it is like to anything that they are told it is like by the man who has known it. But they have not looked upon fire. They cannot really know it. They can only know of it. But fire comes again into the world, many times. More men look upon fire. After a time, fire is as common as grass and clouds and the air they breathe. They see that, while it is like a poppy, it is not a poppy, while it is like water, it is not water, while it is like the sun, it is not the sun, and while it is like that which eats and passes wastes, it is not that which eats and passes wastes, but something different from each of these apart or all of these together. So they look upon this new thing and they make a new word to call it. They call it 'fire.' If they come upon one who still has not seen it and they speak to him of fire, he does not know what they mean. So they, in turn, fall back upon telling him what fire is like. As they do so, they know from their own experience that what they are telling him is not the truth, but only part of it. They know that this man will never know reality from their words, though all the words in the world are theirs to use. He must look upon the fire, smell of it, warm his hands by it, stare into its heart, or remain forever ignorant. Therefore, 'fire' does not matter, 'earth' and 'air' and 'water' do not matter. 'I' do not matter. No word matter. But man forgets reality and remembers words. The more words he remembers, the cleverer do his fellows esteem him. He looks upon the great transformations of the world, but he does not see them as they were seen when man looked upon reality for the first time. Their names come to his lips and he smiles as he tastes them, thinking he knows them in the naming. The thing that has never happened before is still happening. It is still a miracle. The great burning blossom squats, flowing, upon the limb of the world, excreting the ash of the world, and being none of these things I have named and at the same time all of them, and this is reality-the Nameless.

Everyone is so cheerful and happy,” I said “This isn’t Mister Rogers Neighborhood, Dex. It’s Miami. Only the bad guys are happy.” She looked at me without expression, a perfect cop stare. “How come you’re not laughing and singing?” “Unkind, Deb. Very unkind. I’ve been good for months.” She took a sip of water. “Uh-huh. And it’s making you crazy.

Mother do you think they'll drop the bomb? Mother do you think they'll like this song? Mother do you think they'll try to break my balls? Mother should I build the wall? Mother should I run for president? Mother should I trust the government? Mother will they put me in the firing line? Mother am I really dying? Hush now baby, baby, dont you cry. Mother's gonna make all your nightmares come true. Mother's gonna put all her fears into you. Mother's gonna keep you right here under her wing. She wont let you fly, but she might let you sing. Mama will keep baby cozy and warm. Ooooh baby ooooh baby oooooh baby, Of course mama'll help to build the wall. Mother do you think she's good enough -- to me? Mother do you think she's dangerous -- to me? Mother will she tear your little boy apart? Mother will she break my heart? Hush now baby, baby dont you cry. Mama's gonna check out all your girlfriends for you. Mama wont let anyone dirty get through. Mama's gonna wait up until you get in. Mama will always find out where you've been. Mama's gonna keep baby healthy and clean. Ooooh baby oooh baby oooh baby, You'll always be baby to me. Mother, did it need to be so high?

A berry ripens in its own good time . . . and so does a child’s readiness. Just as the one needs water and sunlight, the other needs the patient reassurance of loving adults who can trust children to grow according to their own timetables.

The Keeper of Clouds has unpenned his charges. The Keeper of Winds has unlocked his gates. The Keeper of Waters has opened the sky. The Keeper of Lightnings waves his lances. The Keeper of satellites has observed, 'One hundred percent of probability of precipitation.

everything under the sun is in tune but the sun is eclipsed by the moon

In tight coupling, small ripples in quiet waters become tidal waves.

The memories of a man in his old age Are the deeds of a man in his prime. —Roger Waters, Pink Floyd, “Free Four

Mothers,fathers,our kind,tell me again that death doesn't matter.Tell me it's just a limitation of vision ,a fold of landscape,a deep flax-and-poppy-filled gully hidden on the hill, pleat in our perception a somersault of existence,natural,even beneficent even a gift,the only key to the red-lacquered door at the end of the hall,"water within water," those old stories.

A wave of grayness covered over the monastery. The breeze grew stronger, and the dance of the waters began upon the walls. Like a beaded curtain, the rain covered that open end of the porch at which they stared.

Not now John, we've gotta get on. S'cusi dove il bar? Gotta get on. Σε παρακαλώ, πού είναι το μπαρ? Not now John, we've gotta get on. S'il vous plait ou est le bar? Gotta get on, gotta get on. Oy, where's the fucking bar John! Not now John, we've gotta get on. Gotta get on, gotta get on. Hammer! Hammer! Hammer! Hammer! Hammer!

The skeleton key unlocks the mind and swings open the door of imagination. A far better place than here A much safer place than there The quintessential somewhere The mystical nowhere The enigmatic anywhere My gift to you - the key to everywhere. The mortal will find itself lost while the soul always knows the way it is grateful for the darkness and celebrates the day I can give you peace my peace I give you... but I cannot be your savior or your god - I cannot be the light along your path - I can only give you the lamp and point the way. The blind will see... the deaf will hear... but those who choose reason will never understand. Woe to the ones who think they know the answers they will cease to ask the questions that may be their own salvation. We possess the knowledge of the Universe from conception. Once born we are taught to forget. If we cannot look out at our world and see our children's vision then we are truly blind we are unable to lead them to paradise. "Even people who are in the dark search for their shadows. Shadows exist only if there is light. We will never find total darkness - not even in death... ...and we always cast a shadow no matter how overcast our skies become. You are never alone." Do not listen to the voice that shouts to you from behind desks behind podiums behind altars. Do not pay attention to the orators and the opportunists. Do not be distracted by the promises made behind masks. Listen to the quiet. Listen to the whispers as they gently guide you through the assaults of man's absurdities. Listen to the gentle breathing of your mother and lay your head to rest in her peace and in her warm embrace and understand that truth and power lie within you. Breathe silence. The free bird will always return to the cage sooner or later to seek food and water and the loving hand of it's caretaker.

When you swim, you feel your body for what it mostly is – water – and it begins to move with the water around it. No wonder we feel such sympathy for beached whales; we are beached at birth ourselves. To swim is to experience how it was before you were born.

To quote Maslow again regarding his self-actualizing individuals: “One does not complain about water because it is wet, nor about rocks because they are hard. . . . As the child looks out upon the world with wide, uncritical and innocent eyes, simply noting and observing what is the case, without either arguing the matter or demanding that it be otherwise, so does the self-actualizing person look upon human nature both in himself and in others.” (4, p. 207) This acceptant attitude toward that which exists, I find developing in clients in therapy.

Who are you, man?" "I? I am nothing," replied the other. "A leaf caught in a whirlpool. A feather in the wind..." "Too bad," said Yama, "for there are leaves and feathers enough in the world for me to have labored so long only to increase their number. I wanted me a man, one who might continue a war interrupted by his absence-a man of power who could oppose with that power the will of gods. I thought you were he." "I am"-he sqinted again-"Sam. I am Sam. Once- long ago... I did fight, didn't I? Many times..." "You were the Great-Souled Sam, the Budda. Do you remember?" "Maybe I was.." a slow fire was kindled in his eyes. "Yes," he said then. "Yes, I was. Humblest of the proud, proudest of the humble. I fought. I taught the Way for a time. I fought again, taught again, tried politics, magic, poison.. I fought one great battle so terrible the sun itself hid its face from the slaughter-with men and gods, with animals and demons, with spirits of the earth and air, of fire and water, with slizzards and horses, swords and chariots-" "And you lost," said Yama. "Yes, I did, didn't I? But it was quite a showing we gave them, wasn't it? You, deathgod, were my charioteer. It all comes back to me now. We were taken prisoner and the Lords of Karma were to be our judges. You escaped them by the will-death and the Way of the Black Wheel. I could not.

..., its unity, unfolding through all the panels, would have given the illusion of an endless whole, of water without a horizon or bank; nerves tense from work would be relaxed there...and to him who lived in the room it would have offered the refuge of a peaceable meditation in the center of a flowering aquarium.

To Tom his practice, and the weekly visits and sessions with the Schubertly Roger Lepetit, were a form of discipline which he had come to love.

What have we here, laddie? Mysterious scribblings? A secret code? Oh, poems, no less! Poems, everybody!

For example: How do you keep a fish from smelling? Cook it as soon as you catch it. Freeze it. Wrap it in paper. Leave it in the water. Switch to chicken. Keep a cat around. Burn incense. Cut its nose off.

The Gunner's Dream (From The Final Cut) Floating down through the clouds Memories come rushing up to meet me now. In the space between the heavens and in the corner of some foreign field I had a dream. I had a dream. Good-bye Max. Good-bye Ma. After the service when you're walking slowly to the car And the silver in her hair shines in the cold November air You hear the tolling bell And touch the silk in your lapel And as the tear drops rise to meet the comfort of the band You take her frail hand And hold on to the dream. A place to stay Enough to eat Somewhere old heroes shuffle safely down the street Where you can speak out loud About your doubts and fears And what's more no-one ever disappears You never hear their standard issue kicking in your door. You can relax on both sides of the tracks And maniacs don't blow holes in bandsmen by remote control And everyone has recourse to the law And no-one kills the children anymore. And no one kills the children anymore. Night after night Going round and round my brain His dream is driving me insane. In the corner of some foreign field The gunner sleeps tonight. What's done is done. We cannot just write off his final scene. Take heed of his dream.

Nevertheless, there was something extraordinary about it when a man so young, with so little experience in flight test, was selected to go to Muroc Field in California for the XS–1 project. Muroc was up in the high elevations of the Mojave Desert. It looked like some fossil landscape that had long since been left behind by the rest of terrestrial evolution. It was full of huge dry lake beds, the biggest being Rogers Lake. Other than sagebrush the only vegetation was Joshua trees, twisted freaks of the plant world that looked like a cross between cactus and Japanese bonsai. They had a dark petrified green color and horribly crippled branches. At dusk the Joshua trees stood out in silhouette on the fossil wasteland like some arthritic nightmare. In the summer the temperature went up to 110 degrees as a matter of course, and the dry lake beds were covered in sand, and there would be windstorms and sandstorms right out of a Foreign Legion movie. At night it would drop to near freezing, and in December it would start raining, and the dry lakes would fill up with a few inches of water, and some sort of putrid prehistoric shrimps would work their way up from out of the ooze, and sea gulls would come flying in a hundred miles or more from the ocean, over the mountains, to gobble up these squirming little throwbacks. A person had to see it to believe it: flocks of sea gulls wheeling around in the air out in the middle of the high desert in the dead of winter and grazing on antediluvian crustaceans in the primordial ooze. When

In this modern day and age America`s newest slogan is: Mom, apple pie and high-speed Internet. They say you can live two weeks without food, a day or so without water but take someone`s smart phone away, and that person won`t last five minutes.” - Will Roberts

I watch the figure reach the peak Head in clouds, no room to think He gave the world a blissful wink Took a drink, destroyed the peace We watched the ships explode then sink On cardboard screens, the blood-shed pink. This is the way we choose to run things.

It is as if Rogers knew that simply becoming familiar with someone was shallow water; instead he always pursued the deep dive. He was not satisfied with small talk or just knowing what was on the outside; he pursued true knowing and intimacy with everyone he met.

I think they must be lonely...I think anything that waits and sings from the very bottom, the very pit of their stomach, is a very lonely creature indeed...And I think... that those who venture, traveling through the water toward their song, must be very lonely, too.

My mind spun for a second before it drifted, and in that second I knew that of all pleasures—a drink of cold water when you are thirsty, liquor when you are not, sex, a cigarette after many days without one—there is none of them can compare with sleep. Sleep is best. . . .

A point that should be emphasized is that the energy that defines the lifetime of the superposed state is an energy difference, and not the total, (mass-) energy that is involved in the situation as a whole. Thus, for a lump that is quite large but does not move very much-and supposing that it is also crystalline, so that its individual atoms do not get randomly displaced-quantum superpositions could be maintained for a long time. The lump could be much larger than the water droplets considered above. There could also be other very much larger masses in the vicinity, provided that they do not get significantly entangled with the superposed state we are concerned with. (These considerations would be important for solid-state devices, such as gravitational wave detectors, that use coherently oscillating solid-perhaps crystalline-bodies.)

The Congregating of Stars They often meet in mountain lakes, No matter how remote, no matter how deep Down and far they must stream to arrive, Navigating between the steep, vertical piles Of broken limestone and chert, through shattered Trees and dry bushes bent low by winter, Across ravines cut by roaring avalanches Of boulders and ripping ice. Silently, the stars have assembled On the surface of this lost lake tonight, Arranged themselves to match the patterns They maintain in the highest spheres Of the surrounding sky. And they continue on, passing through The smooth, black countenance of the lake, Through that mirror of themselves, down through The icy waters to touch the perfect bottom Stillness of the invisible life and death existing In the nether of those depths. Sky-bound- yet touching every needle In the torn and sturdy forest, every stone, Sharp, cracked along the ragged shore- the stars Appear the same as in ancient human ages On the currents of the old seas and the darkened Trails of desert dunes, Orion’s belt the same As it shone in Galileo’s eyes, Polaris certain above The sails of every mariner’s voyage. An echoing Light from the Magi’s star, that beacon, might even Be shining on this lake tonight, unrecognized. The stars are congregating, perhaps in celebration, passing through their own names and legends, through fogs, airs, and thunders, the vapors of winter frost and summer pollens. They are ancestors of transfiguration, intimate with all the eyes of the night. What can they know?

Before Diagnosis" The lake is dead for a second time this January. And no matter how many geese lay their warm breasts against the ice or fly across its hard chest, it doesn’t break, or sink, or open up and swallow them. The ice is frozen water. There is no metaphor for exile. Even if these trees continue to shake the crows from their branches, my sister is still farther away from her mind than we are from each other sitting on opposite ends of a park bench waiting for evening to swallow us whole. In the last moments of a depressive, a sun. In the last moments of a sun, my sister says a man is chasing a goose through the snow.

He laughed lightly, but only for a moment, and when I looked at him, I could see the part of Roger that never moved. Too much light will blind you, too much water will drown you. It is a danger to accept anything real from another person, to know something of them. A person has to be careful about the voices they listen to, the faces they let themselves see.

They loved the sea. They taught themselves to sail, to navigate and read the weather. Without their mother's knowledge and long before she thought them old enough to sail outside the harbor, they were piloting their catboat all the way to the Isles of Shoals. They were on the return leg of one such excursion when the fickle weather of early spring took an abrupt turn and the sky darkened and the sun vanished and the wind came squalling off the open sea. They were a half mile from the harbor when the storm overtook them. The rain struck in a slashing torrent and the swells hove them so high they felt they might be sent flying--then dropped them into troughs so deep they could see nothing but walls of water the color of iron. They feared the sail would be ripped away. Samuel Thomas wrestled the tiller and John Roger bailed in a frenzy and both were wide-eyed with euphoric terror as time and again they were nearly capsized before at last making the harbor. When they got home and Mary Margaret saw their sodden state she scolded them for dunces and wondered aloud how they could do so well in their schooling when they didn't have sense enough to get out of the rain.

The Routine… ...is not a scene from Alfonso Cuarón’s movie nor a part in Roger Waters “The Wall” Orson Welles might have come close with Kafkaesque nightmares But I beg to differ Routine is ungraspable, unexplainable It is more than just a row of robotic, faceless humanoid figures and less Panem-like It is the tick of an imaginary clock the unprecedented passing time The lure behind the lore Gravitational, earthquake-ish and magnanimous I look at the world and there it is going around in constant rhythms But here I am trapped in the tiniest corner of the tightest corners working my brains out, my fingers, my nimble soul Each to his own Each to his back David and Goliath style How do you wait when the wait is the fate of the unsure? How do you pretend to dream? How do you live in the now when the NOW is all there is to live

If you ever fall into quicksand, the most important thing to remember is this: take your time. Quicksand, unlike water, will not move out of the way to let you pass. Instead, it resists movement. Flailing about will only cause you to sink deeper. But slowly gets you safely to shore. It’s no accident that each episode of Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood opens with a shot of a traffic light flashing in yellow caution mode.

Life flashing before our eyes. You can see the preview while you're alive, see the random sparks of memories and moments flashing, some random and some meaningful. Just grabbing for it in a sea of colorful memories all traveling with schools of fish, some in the shallow and some in the dark. Until this scene crumbles and sinks to the waters below, it's just a blink of an eye away from the future that taunts us around every corner.

I collapsed into the chair. I am what might be called a slow starter. I tend to recapitulate phylogeny every morning. Basic desires inched their ways through my gray matter to close a connection. Slowly, I extended a cold-blooded member and clicked my talons against a couple of numbers. I croaked my desire for food and lots of coffee to the voice that responded. Half an hour later I would only have growled. Then I staggered off to the place of flowing waters to renew my contact with basics.

Seeing the God statement Suppose the statement Blessed Are the pure in heart, for they shall see God were placed like a wreath of violets, Lilies, laurel, and olive, blossoms strung together Like words in a sentence, a garland Launched, set out on a flowing creek Imagine that wreath carried Down the frothy rapids, tossed, floating Slipping over water-smooth, moss-colored Boulders, in and out of slow, dark pools, Through poplar and willow shadows. It dips, Sinks momentarily, emerges, travels, maitains Its ring, its declaration and syntax. At times it widens in a broad, deep Current, makes sense as a gift. The pure becomes inclusive, spatial, Generous. God and heart are two Spread wings of one open reading. And at times it narrows, restricts. Violets and heart entangle With God. The blessed braces, Overlaps lilies and laurel. Still, at any point you might reach down yourself, catch that ring of blossoms, lift it up, wear its beauty and blooming distinction across your forehead. Look into a mirror. See what you can see.

Becky fell unusually quiet as she smoothed Macy's overalls that had scrunched under her legs. A tender gesture probably nobody else had noticed. "I don't want to say this the wrong way, Shah-loh, but we're all gonna die." "Of course we are." A drop of water fell from the end of the snapdragon stem. "But I prefer not to kill my flowers before their time." "Well, cut er not cut, we're all goin'." Becky spoke so soberly that I turned my eyes to her. "Ain't no stoppin' it. You know that." "Sure I do, but isn't it a waste? All that beautiful bloom for what-an hour?" "Mebbe in some ways, but..." She gathered a handful of roses and freesia, delicately perfumed, and pressed them in my hands. "Ya gotta remember though-this was their purpose all along. And they did it to their fullest. It's their gift." I felt strangely moved, standing there with shoppers laughing in the background. And me looking down at those beautiful doomed flowers in my hands, their glowing colors trembling with drops. "But it's such a waste, Becky!" "Or a sacrifice. Depends on how ya look at it. They lived and bloomed, jest like they were made to do. And when it was time to go, they gracefully said yes." She ran her hands over the petals, which gleamed like bits of satin. "We're seein' their last magnificent moments and enjoyin' 'em. If you was a flower, wouldn't that make ya happy to know you'd done what you was born ta do? Even if ya didn't get to do it very long?

Like deep-burrowing, mythological worms, power lines, pipelines, and pneumatic tubes stretch themselves across the continent. Pulsing, peristalsis-like, they drink of the Earth and the thunderbolt. They take oil and electricity and water and coal-wash and small parcels and large packages and letters into themselves. Passing through them, beneath the Earth, these things are excreted at their proper destinations, and the machines who work in these places take over from there. Blind, they sprawl far away from the sun; without taste, the Earth and the thunderbolt go undigested; without smell or hearing, the Earth is their rock-filled prison. They only know what they touch; and touching is their constant function. Such is the deep-buried joy of the worm.

The moonlight filtered through the trees like water from a strainer. Agatha’s hair was the color and consistency of wet noodles. I said she might look sexy as a redhead, and she asserted she’d be staying a creamy alfredo. I touched her tight skin they way a drummer might strum a guitar. She called me Mozart, and I didn’t know how to reply so I simply belched. Before I had finished, her open mouth was on mine, and she was huffing my essence like David Hasselhoff hoofing it to the liquor store. I remember what color panties she wore. They were transparent with the texture of flesh. I rubbed her back while she purred. Her skin was as soft as a fur coat. We made love for what seemed like days, but was in fact 3:58.95—a personal best for me. I felt like Roger Bannister, and she felt like a cheetah. Literally. I told her she’d look good on my rug, as a rug, and she playfully pinched the folds on my stomach. She explored my naval cavity with her pinky, and what started out as foreplay turned into a scavenger hunt. While she might have expected to find lint, nobody could have ever suspected she’d find the lost Templar treasure.

Statement Preliminary to the Invention of Solace Whether they bend as compliantly as black leaves Curved and hanging in the heavy dew in the grey dawn, Or whether they wait as motionless as ice-coated Insects and spears of roots on a northern cliff; Whether they tighten once like the last white edge Of primrose taken suddenly skyward By a gust of frost, or swallow as hard as stones Careened and scattered by a current of river; Whether they mourn by the bright light of grief Running like a spine of grass straight through the sound Of their songs, or whether they fall quietly Through indefinite darkness like a seed of sorrel Bound alive beneath snow; whether they mourn in multitudes, blessed like a congregation of winter forest moaning for the white drifting children of storms they can never remember, or whether they grieve separately, divided even from themselves, parted like golden plovers blown and calling over a buffeted sea; something must come to them, something as clear and fair and continuous as the eye of the bluegill open in calm water, something as silent as the essential spaces of breath heard inside the voice naming all of their wishes, something touching them in the same way the sun deep in the pit of the pear touches the spring sky by the light of its own leaf. A comfort understood like that must be present now and possible.

I sucked on a blade of grass and watched the millwheel turn. I was lying on my stomach on the stream's opposite bank, my head propped in my hands. There was a tiny rainbow in the mist above the froth and boil at the foot of the waterfall, and an occasional droplet found its way to me. The steady splashing and the sound of the wheel drowned out all other noises in the wood. The mill was deserted today, and I contemplated it because I had not seen its like in ages. Watching the wheel and listening to the water were more than just relaxing. It was somewhat hypnotic. … My head nodding with each creak of the wheel, I forced everything else from my mind and set about remembering the necessary texture of the sand, its coloration, the temperature, the winds, the touch of salt in the air, the clouds... I slept then and I dreamed, but not of the place that I sought. I regarded a big roulette wheel, and we were all of us on it-my brothers, my sisters, myself, and others whom I knew or had known-rising and falling, each with his allotted section. We were all shouting for it to stop for us and wailing as we passed the top and headed down once more. The wheel had begun to slow and I was on the rise. A fair-haired youth hung upside down before me, shouting pleas and warnings that were drowned in the cacophony of voices. His face darkened, writhed, became a horrible thing to behold, and I slashed at the cord that bound his ankle and he fell from sight. The wheel slowed even more as I neared the top, and I saw Lorraine then. She was gesturing, beckoning frantically, and calling my name. I leaned toward her, seeing her clearly, wanting her, wanting to help her. But as the wheel continued its turning she passed from my sight. “Corwin!” I tried to ignore her cry, for I was almost to the top. It came again, but I tensed myself and prepared to spring upward. If it did not stop for me, I was going to try gimmicking the damned thing, even though falling off would mean my total ruin. I readied myself for the leap. Another click... “Corwin!” It receded, returned, faded, and I was looking toward the water wheel again with my name echoing in my ears and mingling, merging, fading into the sound of the stream. … It plunged for over a thousand feet: a mighty cataract that smote the gray river like an anvil. The currents were rapid and strong, bearing bubbles and flecks of foam a great distance before they finally dissolved. Across from us, perhaps half a mile distant, partly screened by rainbow and mist, like an island slapped by a Titan, a gigantic wheel slowly rotated, ponderous and gleaming. High overhead, enormous birds rode like drifting crucifixes the currents of the air. We stood there for a fairly long while. Conversation was impossible, which was just as well. After a time, when she turned from it to look at me, narrow-eyed, speculative, I nodded and gestured with my eyes toward the wood. Turning then, we made our way back in the direction from which we had come. Our return was the same process in reverse, and I managed it with greater ease. When conversation became possible once more, Dara still kept her silence, apparently realizing by then that I was a part of the process of change going on around us. It was not until we stood beside our own stream once more, watching the small mill wheel in its turning, that she spoke.

Death Vision I think it’s a multiplication of sight, Like after a low hovering autumn rain When the invisible web of funnel weaves And sheetweb weavers all at once are seen Where they always were, spread and looping The grasses, every strand, waft and leaf- Crest elucidated with water-light and frost, completing the fullest aspect of field. Or maybe the grace of death is split-second Transformation of knowledge, an intricate, Turning realization, as when a single Sperm-embracing deep ovum transforms, In an instant, from stasis to replicating, Star-shifting shimmer, rolls, reaches, Alters its plane of intentions, becomes A hoofing, thumping host of purpose. I can imagine not merely The falling away of blank walls And blinds in that moment, not merely A shutter flung open for the first time Above a valley of interlocking forests And constellations but a sweeping, Penetrating circumference of vision Encompassing both knotweed bud And its seed simultaneously, seeing Blood bone and its ash as one, The repeated light and fall and flight Of hawk-owl and tundra vole As a union of origin and finality. A mathematics of flesh and space might Take hold if we ask for it in that last Moment, might appear as if it had always Existed within the eyes, translucent, Jewel-like in stained glass patterns Of globes and measures, equations, Made evident by a revelation of galaxies In the knees, spine, fingers, all The ceasings, all the deaths within deaths That compose the body becoming at once Their own symbolic perception and praise Of river salt, blooms and breaths, strings, Strains, sun-seas of gravels and gills; This one expression breaking, this same Expression healing.

A place to stay Enough to eat Somewhere old heroes shuffle safely down the street Where you can speak out loud About your doubts and fears And what's more no one disappears You never hear their standard issue kicking in your door You can relax on both sides of the tracks And maniacs don't blow holes in bandsmen by remote control And everyone has recourse to the law And no one kills the children anymore And no one kills the children anymore

Does anybody here remember Vera Lynn? Remember how she said that We would meet again Some sunny day? Vera, Vera What has become of you Does anybody else in here Feel the way I do?

and again, what was it he would have possibly been looking at? Mac turned all the way around and looked back down the county road to the east. There were some interspersed homes visible on larger multi-acre plots of land. Farther to the southeast he could make out some blue water that he knew was Diamond Lake, but that was as far as a mile away. He knew that

He had the hippie mystique of Roger Waters and the hip-hop swagger of Eminem.

It's said that Richard Harding Davis was dispatched by William Randolph Hearst to cover the Johnstown flood. Here was his lead: "God stood on a mountaintop here and looked at what his waters had wrought." Hearst cabled back: "Forget flood. Interview God.

Finally, after what felt like an hour of flopping and glugging, we jumped our last ramp and tumbled to a stop in another tunnel. I stumbled around on my skis for a couple of seconds until Roger cut them off. “Can we not do the fast way anymore?” I asked before puking all over the ground. Sam and Mark patiently waited for me to empty my stomach of sewer water before pressing forward into the next room. “Whoa,” Mark said as we walked to the middle of the chamber. The walls created a perfect circle around us, and the ceiling was at least 100 feet high. It felt like we were standing inside the world’s biggest Pringles can. Right in front of us was a power-up cube. “Why don’t you take this one, Jesse?” Mark asked. I smiled

On the subject of dogs… the river could be treacherous, quite frightening. Case in point: Pooh Bear fell through the ice. Andrea panicked, jumping in after him. Roger plucked both of them out of the frigid water before it was too late.

Here is the answer, I wrote my friend, and enclosed the fine feather I had just found at the river. Just as surely as spring lies under the iron-hard winter ground of the Plains, just as surely as water runs beneath the ice, such gifts are never gone, even when they are given away. The way we keep such gifts of love, it turns out, is to give them away.

Were Beecher’s observations relevant to people with PTSD? Mark Greenberg, Roger Pitman, Scott Orr, and I decided to ask eight Vietnam combat veterans if they would be willing to take a standard pain test while they watched scenes from a number of movies. The first clip we showed was from Oliver Stone’s graphically violent Platoon (1986), and while it ran we measured how long the veterans could keep their right hands in a bucket of ice water. We then repeated this process with a peaceful (and long-forgotten) movie clip. Seven of the eight veterans kept their hands in the painfully cold water 30 percent longer during Platoon. We then calculated that the amount of analgesia produced by watching fifteen minutes of a combat movie was equivalent to that produced by being injected with eight milligrams of morphine, about the same dose a person would receive in an emergency room for crushing chest pain. We concluded that Beecher’s speculation that “strong emotions can block pain” was the result of the release of morphinelike substances manufactured in the brain. This suggested that for many traumatized people, reexposure to stress might provide a similar relief from anxiety.17 It was an interesting experiment, but it did not fully explain why Julia kept going back to her violent pimp.

Gustavo Solivellas dice: "Hay padres, hermanos, hijos, que salen cada día a luchar y pierden la vida en guerras alrededor del mundo. La política moderna intenta mantener esa noción del "nosotros" y "ellos" con un muro entre medio" (Roger Waters)

. It’s as if, after swimming upstream in the chilly waters of my childhood, I’ve reached a warm sea, where I can simply float. I haven’t been willing to stir the familial sediment at the bottom. After all, that’s where all the shit is.

I felt vaguely uneasy, though I couldn’t say why. It did not seem all that unusual to be drinking with a White Rabbit, a short guy who resembled Betrand Russell, a grinning Cat, and my old friend Luke Raynard, who was singing Irish ballads while a peculiar landscape shifted from mural to reality at his back. Well, I was impressed by the huge blue Caterpillar smoking the hookah atop the giant mushroom because I know how hard it is to keep a water pipe lit. Still, that wasn’t it. It was a convivial scene, and Luke was known to keep pretty strange company on occasion. So why should I feel uneasy?

Pleasure takes place in the body, but satisfaction is of the soul, and so things which offer purely physical pleasure cannot help egging people on to consume more and more in search of a spiritual state the carnal thing is incapable of delivering. The economy of spiritual things is different because spirit is immaterial, intellectual, and unquantifiable. There is not “more Christ” in a small bite of the Eucharist than a large one, neither is the object blessed with a bucket of holy water more holy than an object blessed with a thimble full. Inasmuch as a thing appeals more to the spirit than the body, a man needs less of it, which is why many people have accidentally eaten an entire bag of Doritos in one sitting, but no one has ever accidentally read the entire gospel of St. John in one sitting.

As a parent and grandparent, it’s my belief that parents are always responsible for just about everything, including breakdowns in communication with their children and finding innovative ways to build bridges over troubled waters. When there’s just lots of troubled water and no bridges in sight, my take is that the parent must put their hand up and take responsibility. It’s called being an adult!

A point that should be emphasized is that the energy that the energy that defines the lifetime of the superposed state is an energy difference, and not the total, (mass-) energy that is involved in the situation as a whole. Thus, for a lump that is quite large but does not move very much-and supposing that it is also crystalline, so that its individual atoms do not get randomly displaced-quantum superpositions could be maintained for a long time. The lump could be much larger than the water droplets considered above. There could also be other very much larger masses in the vicinity, provided that they do not get significantly entangled with the superposed state we are concerned with. (These considerations would be important for solid-state devices, such as gravitational wave detectors, that use coherently oscillating solid-perhaps crystalline-bodies.)

Churchill is a creature of habit, rising each morning at 7:30 in his official residence at 10 Downing Street, just a half mile up the road from the Houses of Parliament. He works in bed until 11:00, whereupon he bathes, pours a weak Johnnie Walker Red scotch and water, and then works some more.3 He sips Pol Roger champagne with lunch at 1:00 p.m. Whenever possible, this is followed by a game of backgammon with Clementine at 3:30. He takes a ninety-minute nap at 5:00 p.m. Arising, Churchill bathes a second time, works for an hour, eats a sumptuous dinner at 8:00 p.m., and smokes a post-dinner cigar with a vintage Hine brandy. After that, he goes back to his study for more work until well past midnight. Unless

The Bay of Calvi twinkled under a cloudless sky. It was mid-summer on the Mediterranean island of Corsica, and the weather couldn’t have been more perfect. A collection of multi-million dollar pleasure yachts — all polished and smoothed until they gleamed — rested in a spacious marina built into one side of the bay. The turquoise water had a clarity that seemed to be the trademark for these kind of exotic locations. It lapped gently at the sandy shore, adding soft background noise to the serene ambience of the bay.  The

When the Black Death spread across Europe, from 1347 to 1350, physicians didn’t really have anything to make people feel better besides aqua vitae. So they used them. The French translated aqua vita into eau de vie, and the Dutch called it “burnt wine,” or brandewijn. Exported to England, that got corrupted to “brandy-wine,” and eventually just “brandy.” The Scots started making the stuff out of grains; in Gaelic, they called it “water of life,” usquebaugh, eventually corrupted to “whisky.

(The selfsame hydrogen bonds also make water blue, because they absorb a little red from sunlight, which contains all the colors of the rainbow.)

When it comes to the number of forms, or phases, of ice, water has more solid phases —nine total —than any other known pure substance because it can form phases which differ only in the orientations of the hydrogen bonds. No wonder every crystal is different.

The “Sons of the Pioneers” are amongst America’s earliest Country/Western singing groups. One weekend we’d drive south of the border to Tijuana, Mexico and the next weekend it would be to Knott’s Berry Farm, where I heard the “Sons of the Pioneers” singing Tumbling Tumble Weeds, Cool Clear Water and other Western songs that made the group famous. On many occasions, they performed with Roy Rogers, who was a movie cowboy and Dale Evans his cowgirl wife, from Victorville, California. The “Sons of the Pioneers” were popular at that time and were inaugurated into the Country Music Hall of Fame later in 1976. It was a summer that I will never forget! Knott’s Berry Farm is a 160-acre amusement park in Buena Park, California and the singing group has a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame on Hollywood Blvd.

Fucken cold, nut-shriveling water. Got

Recklessness springs naturally from overoptimism. Left to its own highly persuasive devices, exultant mood will nearly always trump rational thought. It is in the amalgam of fever and reason that genius lies. Passions are like fire and water, observed the journalist Sir Roger L'estrange more than three hundred years ago: they are good servants but poor masters. Passion kept on a loose bit serves its master far better than if it is left unbridled. Brakes are necessary; the exuberant mind must preserve the capacity to take a dispassionate measure of itself and the object of its zeal. When it does not, the consequences can be devastating.

Lacking a pot, Pepys “shit in the chimney” twice one night, whereas the Yorkshire laborer Abram Ingham used his “clogg” [shoe] to “make water in.” If all else failed, an Italian adage instructed, “You may piss a bed, and say you sweated.”38

Three areas, all based on personal choice and personal action, maximize the activity of our naturally occurring self-healing capability. The first is our choice of attitudes and mental influences. When we choose to think, believe, and act from a position of power, refusing to be a victim of circumstances, the healer within is automatically strengthened. When we refuse to live under the influence of worry and doubt, the internal medicine is enriched. The second area of choice is lifestyle: nutrition, exercise, rest, relationships, finances, work, spiritual practice, play, water intake, avoidance of alcohol and cigarettes, and so on. From moment to moment, each of us personally elects whether to enhance or sabotage the healer within through our behaviors and personal choices.

Mustapha then had some of the bodies of the knights and a Maltese priest—“some mutilated, some without heads, some with their bellies ripped open”—dressed in their distinctive red-and-white surcoats and nailed to wooden crosses in parody of the crucifixion. The bodies were launched into the water off Saint Elmo’s point, where the current washed them across to Birgu.

All the Turkish prisoners were taken out of the dungeons and slaughtered on the ramparts. He sent a messenger to the commander of the garrison at Mdina with orders to kill all his prisoners, but slowly, one a day, every day. Later that day the guns of Saint Angelo opened up. A volley of human heads bombarded the Ottoman camp across the water. There would be no repeat of the chivalrous truce at Rhodes.

the President’s Science Advisory Committee, Panel on Environmental Pollution, published a report entitled “Restoring the Quality of Our Environment.”44 This report included a section on “climatic effects of pollution” that is notable for treating CO2 as a pollutant. It also includes an appendix on “Atmospheric Carbon Dioxide,” written by a committee chaired by Roger Revelle that also included Wallace Broecker, Joseph Smagorinsky, Harmon Craig, and Charles Keeling. This appendix discusses consequences of increases in atmospheric carbon dioxide such as the melting of the Antarctic ice cap, sea level rise, ocean warming, increasing acidity of fresh waters, and increased photosynthesis. The appendix notes that “[t]he climatic changes that may be produced by the increased CO2 content could be deleterious from the point of view of human beings.

    "Hey, there!" yelled Shinny. "You, with the asteroid head! Gimme a short bucket of that juice and bring a bottle of Martian fizz along with it!" The bartender nodded, and Shinny turned back to Roger. "Martian fizz is nothing more than a little water with sugar in it," he explained.

How can you have any pudding if you don't eat your meat? -- Roger Waters.

Big worms that move through the sand like it’s water.” Roger’s level arm went up and down in a smooth wave. “Or the big thing in Star Wars. What if we step down there and the sand just turns into a big pit with a mouth at the bottom?” “For the record, it’s called a Sarlacc,” Xela said.

Finally, there is no constant existence, neither of our being nor of that of objects. Both we and our judgment and all things mortal go on flowing and rolling endlessly. Thus nothing can be established for certain of the one or the other, both the judging and the judged being in a constant state of change and motion. We have no communication with being, since all human nature is always in the middle between being born and dying, giving only an obscure appearance and shadow of itself, and an uncertain and weak opinion of itself.25 And if by chance you fix your thought on wanting to grasp your being, that is no more nor less than if you wanted to take hold of water, for the more you squeeze and press what is by nature flowing everywhere, the more you lose what you wanted to seize and take hold of. Thus, since all things are subject to passing from one change to another, reason, seeking a real subsistence there, finds itself disappointed, not being able to apprehend anything subsistent and permanent, since everything is either coming into being and is not yet at all, or beginning to die before it is born.

rocks, simulated green weeds, and an arched sign that read “Beware.” He let his secretary handle the weekly water changes, but Roger never missed its daily feeding. On weekends, though, he usually

In The New Biographical Dictionary of Film, David Thomson argues that Brennan should have won awards for even better performances in To Have and Have Not (1944), My Darling Clementine (1946), Red River (1948), The Far Country (1955), and Rio Bravo (1959). Thomson counts no less than twenty-eight high caliber Brennan performances in still more films, including These Three (1936), Fury (1936), Meet John Doe (1941), and Bad Day At Black Rock (1955). Brennan worked with Hollywood’s greatest directors—John Ford, Howard Hawks, William Wyler, King Vidor, and Fritz Lang—while also starring in Jean Renoir’s Hollywood directorial debut, Swamp Water (1941). To discuss Brennan’s greatest performances is also to comment on the work of Gary Cooper, Henry Fonda, Dana Andrews, Spencer Tracy, John Wayne, Humphrey Bogart, Lauren Bacall, Anne Baxter, Barbara Stanwyck, Lana Turner, Linda Darnell, Ginger Rogers, Loretta Young, and many other stars.

A stream is an object that takes information from one source and sends it somewhere else, taking its name from water streams that take squids, boats, chickens, sheep, and industrial pollutants from one place to another. Streams

I am Hansje, born and bred in the north Netherlands where I bathed from age one in lakes, river and cold-water outdoor pools. Here in Warwickshire, where I have lived for some thirty-three years, I am among other things a swimmer, and if you ever wish to swim in the beautiful Avon, then do tell me and I will show you to the best and secret places. I have never experienced the profound sense of loss of someone I have never met as when I learnt that Roger had died. Many sentences in each of his books are as if engraved in me, find a resting place, a recognition, they are magnifying glass, lens and microscope to the natural world, a watery surface through which I look to see the earth clarified.

This intensive two-year campaign by a public health worker in a Peruvian village of 200 families, aimed at persuading housewives to boil drinking water, was largely unsuccessful. Nelida was able to encourage only about 5 percent of the population, eleven families, to adopt the innovation. The diffusion campaign in Los Molinas failed because of the cultural beliefs of the villagers. Local tradition links hot foods with illness. Boiling water makes water less “cold” and hence, appropriate only for the sick. But if a person is not ill, the individual is prohibited by village norms from drinking boiled water. Only individuals who are unintegrated into local networks risk defying community norms on water boiling. An important factor regarding the adoption rate of an innovation is its compatibility with the values, beliefs, and past experiences of individuals in the social system. Nelida and her superiors in the public health agency should have understood the hot-cold belief system, as it is found throughout Peru (and in most nations of Latin America, Africa, and Asia). Here is an example of an indigenous knowledge system that caused the failure of a development program.

When villagers in Third World countries are asked in surveys, “What is the most important problem in your life?” they consistently respond, “Water.” Typically, village families walk several miles to obtain a reliable source of water, and three to four hours per day are spent by water-gatherers in carrying the water to their home.

a doctor in Manhattan saved a dying man for free.

Come out of the water, open your eyes and back to the here and now. Recreate the experience of swimming with dolphins using dance and movement. Objectives The aim of Swimming with Dolphins is to get clients to experience a range of feelings and thinking in a way that is relatively safe. Each client will have a different reaction to this visualisation and subsequent activity.

For example, the villagers in Los Molinas did not understand germ theory, which the health worker tried to explain to them as a reason for boiling their drinking water.

Ticking away the moments that make up a dull day, You fritter and waste the hours in an off hand way. Kicking around on a piece of ground in your hometown, Waiting for someone or something to show you the way. Tired of lying in the sunshine, Staying home to watch the rain, You are young and life is long, and there is time to kill today. And then one day you find, ten years have gone behind you No one told you when to run, You missed the starting gun.

Through the fish-eyed lens of tear-stained eyes I can barely define the shape of this moment in time and far from flying high in clear blue skies I'm spiralling down to the hole in the ground where I hide.

Did you see the frightened ones? Did you hear the falling bombs? Did you ever wonder Why we had to run for shelter When the promise of a brave new world Unfurled beneath the clear blue sky?

Take all your overgrown infants away, somewhere And build them a home, a little place of their own The Fletcher Memorial Home For incurable tyrants and kings They can appear to themselves every day On closed circuit TV To make sure they're still real It's the only connection they feel Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome, Reagan and Haig Mr. Began and friend, Mrs. Thatcher, the Paisly (Hello Maggie!) Mr. Brezhnev and party, the Ghost of McCarthy And the memories have mixed and now adding colour (Who's the bald chap?) A group of anonymous Latin American meat packing glitterati Did they expect us to treat them with any respect? They can polish their medals and sharpen their smiles And please themselves by playing games for a while Boom boom, bang bang, lie down you're dead Safe in the permanent gaze of a cold glass eye With their favourite toy There'll be good girls 'n' boys In the Fletcher Memorial Home for colonial Wasters of life and limb Is everyone in? Are you having English time? (Big guy) Now final solution can be applied

Welcome my son Welcome to the machine Where have you been? It's alright we know where you've been You've been in the pipeline Filling in time Provided with toys and scouting for boys You brought a guitar to punish your ma And you didn't like school And you know you're nobody's fool So welcome to the machine Welcome my son Welcome to the machine What did you dream? It's alright we told you what to dream You dreamed of a big star He played a mean guitar He always ate in the Steak Bar He loved to drive in his Jaguar So welcome to the machine

Ticking away the moments that make up a dull day You fritter and waste the hours in an offhand way Kicking around on a piece of ground in your home town Waiting for someone or something to show you the way Tired of lying in the sunshine, staying home to watch the rain You are young and life is long, and there is time to kill today And then one day you find ten years have got behind you No one told you when to run, you missed the starting gun So you run and you run to catch up with the sun but it's sinking Racing around to come up behind you again The sun is the same in a relative way but you're older Shorter of breath and one day closer to death Every year is getting shorter never seem to find the time Plans that either come to naught or half a page of scribbled lines Hanging on in quiet desperation is the English way The time is gone, the song is over Thought I'd something more to say

during and immediately after the Revolution, a period that Williston Walker (1894, p. 319) described as "the epoch of the lowest spiritual vitality that our churches have ever experienced." Or, to quote Leonard Woolsey Bacon (1897, p. 230): "The closing years of the eighteenth century show the lowest low-water mark of the lowest ebb-tide of spiritual life in the history of the American church.

When you swim, you feel your body for what it mostly is – water – and it begins to move with the water around it. No wonder we feel such sympathy for beached whales; we are beached at birth ourselves. To swim is to experience how it was before you were born. Once in the water, you are immersed in an intensely private world as you were in the womb.

I was awakened early by the massed cockerels of Osh. There had been heavy rain overnight, and as I lay in bed I could hear the first traffic splashing through deep puddles in the potholed streets. Unfamiliar birdsong floated in, and a thin steam rose off the windowsills. I found myself in a faded hotel suite of two bedrooms, bathroom and huge sitting room full of ancient threadbare sofas draped in rugs. I felt very much at home; even more so when the hotelier brought in a breakfast tray of fresh, hot bread, honey, butter and chai. I even enjoyed the stampede of silverfish that fled the bathroom and the rusty water of the shower. I knew for certain I was going to like Kyrgyzstan.

So swimming is a rite of passage, a crossing of boundaries: the line of the shore, the bank of the river, the edge of the pool, the surface itself. When you enter the water, something like metamorphosis happens. Leaving behind the land, you go through the looking-glass surface and enter a new world, in which survival, not ambition or desire, is the dominant aim. The lifeguards at the pool or the beach remind you of the thin line between waving and drowning.

Water is H2O, hydrogen two parts, oxygen one, But there is also a third thing, that makes it water And nobody knows what that is.

The seventy-one-year-old Churchill is a creature of habit, rising each morning at 7:30 in his official residence at 10 Downing Street, just a half mile up the road from the Houses of Parliament. He works in bed until 11:00, whereupon he bathes, pours a weak Johnnie Walker Red scotch and water, and then works some more.3 He sips Pol Roger champagne with lunch at 1:00 p.m. Whenever possible, this is followed by a game of backgammon with Clementine at 3:30. He takes a ninety-minute nap at 5:00 p.m. Arising, Churchill bathes a second time, works for an hour, eats a sumptuous dinner at 8:00 p.m., and smokes a post-dinner cigar with a vintage Hine brandy. After that, he goes back to his study for more work until well past midnight.

Cisterns are made to hold water, but there was no water in it at the time. Had there been, Joseph could have drowned. Instead he stayed relatively safe inside the cistern until his brothers inadvertently moved him toward his destiny in Egypt. Reflecting on my own cistern experience, I realized that God’s intention was not to drown me, not to overwhelm me with illness, but only to hold me still for a while.

As I look at it now, I was peeling off layer after layer of defenses. I’d build them up, try them, and then discard them when you remained the same. I didn’t know what was at the bottom and I was very much afraid to find out, but I had to keep on trying. At first I felt there was nothing within me—just a great emptiness where I needed and wanted a solid core. Then I began to feel that I was facing a solid brick wall, too high to get over and too thick to go through. One day the wall became translucent, rather than solid. After this, the wall seemed to disappear but beyond it I discovered a dam holding back violent, churning waters. I felt as if I were holding back the force of these waters and if I opened even a tiny hole I and all about me would be destroyed in the ensuing torrent of feelings represented by the water. Finally I could stand the strain no longer and I let go. All I did, actually, was to succumb to complete and utter self pity, then hate, then love. After this experience, I felt as if I had leaped a brink and was safely on the other side, though still tottering a bit on the edge. I don’t know what I was searching for or where I was going, but I felt then as I have always felt whenever I really lived, that I was moving forward.

The strait is governed by unique hydraulic forces. The powerful current pushing the fresher water of the Black Sea down toward the Mediterranean at a speed of five knots is reversed forty meters down by a submarine countersurge forcing heavier salty water up the Bosporus, so that a ship lowering a fishing net may be dragged back northward against the apparent run of the sea.

We watched the tragedy unfold We did as we were told, bought and sold It was the greatest show on Earth But then it was over We oohed and ahhed, we drove our racing cars We ate our last few jars of caviar And somewhere out there in the stars A keen-eyed lookout spied a flickering light Our last hurrah And when they found our shadows Grouped 'round the TV sets They ran down every lead They repeated every test They checked out all the data on their list And then the alien anthropologists Admitted they were still perplexed But on eliminating every other reason For our sad demise They logged the only explanation left This species has amused itself to death No tears to cry No feelings left This species has amused itself to death Amused itself to death

Tori’s alarm roused her at 6 a.m. She rolled out of bed, quickly pulled on a pair of running shorts, a sports bra, and tank, and then slipped on her running shoes. With her water bottle stuffed in her waist pack and her ear buds in place, she walked out the front of the hotel and started jogging, making her way to the path that ran along the H-4.

. The following day, a Saturday, they left Key West, drove an hour to Marathon, and found the Kronke home in Grassy Key, a plush, gated community on the water. Their appointment was for 10:00 a.m. and they arrived a few minutes early. Jane Kronke greeted them warmly and led them to the patio where her two sons, Roger and Guff, were waiting. They had driven down from Miami the day before. Minutes later, Chief Turnbull of the Marathon Police arrived. Allie excused himself and took his coffee to the front of the hous

Flight 1421 was going down. But by stopping all traffic, by turning all attention to them, everyone was saying: You’re not alone. Kit cleared her throat. “Appreciate that. Unable. We’re gonna be in the water.” The pilots stared at the approaching ocean as the radio crackled with dead air. Kit could imagine the controller looking to his colleagues. Knowing this would be the last conversation this flight crew ever had. “Ah, roger that,” the controller responded. His voice cracked. “We got you on radar. Coast Guard is standing by for rescue and recovery.” There was a pause. “Godspeed, fourteen twenty-one.” “Coastal fourteen twenty-one, good day,” Kit said, the traditional sign-off sounding more like a goodbye.

Tears of merriment flow from the eyes, so too do tears of grief and pain. Hence tears are symbols of the spirit: it is as though something of me is lost with them. For this reason people have since ancient times felt the impulse to collect their tears in lachrymatories. Psalm 56, v. 8, laments to God ‘Thou tellest my wanderings, put Thou my tears in Thy bottle; are they not in Thy Book?’ Tears are like pains: they cannot be voluntary, even if you can do something else in order to produce them. Although there are actors and hypocrites who can produce tears at will, that does not make tears into intentional actions; it just means that there are ways of making the eyes water without producing ‘real tears’. But laughing and smiling can be willed, and when they are willed they have a ghoulish, threatening quality, as when someone laughs cynically, or hides behind a knowing smile. Voluntary laughter may also be a kind of spiritual armour, with which a person defends himself against a treacherous world. Similar observations apply to blushes, which are more like tears than laughter in that they cannot be intended. What Milton says about smiles could equally be said of blushes. Blushes from reason flow, to brute denied, and are of love the food. Only a rational being can blush, even though nobody can blush voluntarily. Even if, by some trick, you are able to make the blood flow into the surface of your cheeks, this would not be blushing but a kind of deception. And it is the involuntary character of the blush that conveys its meaning. Mary’s blush upon meeting John, being involuntary, impresses him with the sense that he has summoned it – that it is in some sense his doing, just as her smile is his doing. Her blush is a fragment of her first person perspective, called up onto the surface of her being and made visible in her face. In our experience of such things our sense of the animal unity of the other combines with our sense of his unity as a person, and we perceive those two unities as an indissoluble whole. The subject becomes, then, a real presence in the world of objects.

Susan Rogers had been right to fear the water. There were monsters lurking just below its churning surface. Now, they pulled her down into the dark depths; things with black and orange stripes, things with claws, with fangs like sharpened steak knives, and, unfortunately for her, they were not inclined to swallow her whole.

The legends describe Patrick as an extremely pious child. In one, the infant Patrick miraculously provides the holy water for his own baptism! A blind and oddly underprepared priest, realizing that he doesn’t have any water on hand, takes baby Patrick’s hand and makes the sign of the cross over the ground.

The legends describe Patrick as an extremely pious child. In one, the infant Patrick miraculously provides the holy water for his own baptism! A blind and oddly underprepared priest, realizing that he doesn’t have any water on hand, takes baby Patrick’s hand and makes the sign of the cross over the ground. A spring of water bubbles forth, the baptism goes forward, and the blind priest receives sight when he washes his face with the water. What’s more, the priest discovers that he is literate at his first sight of letters: he reads the words of the baptismal service.

I'm sure the American Association of Dry Cleaners would hate me, but the harsh chemicals used in dry cleaning will break down fabrics in the finest garments over time. Fibers that are dyed navy blue, black, or dark gray are already dressed by holding the dye. Dry cleaning dies the fabric out, which is why suits cleaned in this manner begin to shine. Unless you happen to sweat profusely, suits can be cleaned by dipping a whisk broom in cool water and gently brushing the suit. Put outside in fresh air but not direct sunlight to dry. It is essential that a suit or jacket and trousers be allowed to air out immediately after a wearing. Unless you are a slob, you should only need to clean a suit twice a year if worn in regular rotation.

Cisterns are made to hold water, but there was no water in it at the time. Had there been, Joseph could have drowned. Instead he stayed relatively safe inside the cistern until his brothers inadvertently moved him toward his destiny in Egypt.

Black Child, you are the walking-on-of-water Without the need of an approving master. You are in a beautiful language. You are what lies beyond this kingdom And the next and the next and fire. Fire, Black Child.

Tori Hunter sat alone on the old green couch with her legs tucked tightly together. Her jean shorts were slightly soiled and her white scoop-neck tank top lacked its normal crispness, all a result of being in the same clothes for nearly twenty hours. A barely touched glass of water wrapped in a plain white napkin sat in front of her on the worn walnut coffee table. She could hear voices approaching in the hallway. “Nothing from the scent of that sweatshirt?” one voice asked.

Two Suns in the Sunset" "In my rearview mirror, the sun is going down Sinking behind bridges in the road And I think of all the good things That we have left undone And I suffer premonitions, confirm suspicions Of the holocaust to come The rusty wire that holds the cork that keeps the anger in Gives way and suddenly it's day again The sun is in the east Even though the day is done Two suns in the sunset Could be the human race is run Like the moment when the brakes lock And you slide towards the big truck You stretch the frozen moments with your fear And you'll never hear their voices And you'll never see their faces You have no recourse to the law anymore And as the windshield melts and my tears evaporate Leaving only charcoal to defend Finally, I understand The feelings of the few Ashes and diamonds, foe and friend We were all equal in the end

Eclipse" "All that you touch And all that you see All that you taste All you feel And all that you loved And all that you hate All you distrust All you save And all that you give And all that you deal And all that you buy Beg, borrow, or steal And all you create And all you destroy And all that you do And all that you say And all that you eat And everyone you meet And all that you slight And everyone you fight And all that is now And all that is gone And all that's to come And everything under the sun is in tune But the sun is eclipsed by the moon

It was the genius of Orseolo to fully understand that Venice's growth, perhaps its very survival, lay far beyond the waters of the lagoon. He had already obtained favorable trading agreements with Constantinople, and, to the disgust of militant Christendom, he dispatched ambassadors to the four corners of the Mediterranean to strike similar agreements with the Islamic world. The future for Venice lay in Alexandria, Syria, Constantinople, and the Barbary Coast of North Africa, where wealthier, more advanced societies promised spices, silk, cotton, and glass — luxurious commodities that the city was ideally placed to sell on into northern Italy and central Europe. The problem for Venetian sailors was that the voyage down the Adriatic was terribly unsafe. The city's home waters, the Gulf of Venice, lay within its power, but the central Adriatic was risky to navigate, as it was patrolled by Croat pirates. Since the eighth century these Slav settlers from the upper Balkans had established themselves on its eastern, Dalmatian shores. This was a terrain made for maritime robbery. From island lairs and coastal creeks, the shallow-draft Croat ships could dart out and snatch merchant traffic passing down the strait. Venice had been conducting a running fight with these pirates for 150 years. The contest had yielded little but defeat and humiliation. One doge had been killed leading a punitive expedition; thereafter the Venetians had opted to pay craven tribute for free passage to the open seas. The Croats were now seeking to extend their influence to the old Roman towns farther up the coast. Orseolo brought to this problem a clear strategic vision that would form the cornerstone of Venetian policy for all the centuries that the Republic lived. The Adriatic must provide free passage for Venetian ships, otherwise they would be forever bottled up. The doge ordered that there would be no more tribute and prepared a substantial fleet to command obedience.

Tori checked her watch and approved of her pace. It was just under seven minutes a mile, which would keep her morning run to around forty-five minutes. She’d run a good long loop south through Manhattan’s Battery Park and now back along the Esplanade, with the Hudson River to her left. There were just a few blocks left on the way back to her condo building, the tip top of which was visible to her right. She turned right onto Albany Street, ran another half-block, and came to a stop, breathing heavily, checking her fitness tracker for her running time. Satisfied with the results, she reached for the bottle of water in her waist pack, and while taking a long drink she slowly walked the remaining hundred feet to the long, green awning marking the entrance to her building.

Braddock managed a couple of hours of sleep on the ancient, weathered, mustard-yellow leather sofa in his office. It was a couch so old and the cushions so flat that visitors often remarked that it looked like it had sprung a leak and needed to be re-inflated. At five his cell phone alarm blared. With a long, weary sigh, he unfurled his long body and set his size fourteens on the floor. After a minute of rubbing his eyes and face and collecting his thoughts, he made his way to the locker room, where he splashed cold water on his face and switched into some spare clean clothes from his locker. Dressed, he made the one-block walk from the government center to the diner while a thin ribbon of dark orange sunlight started to emerge over the trees in the distant eastern horizon.

An illustration borrowed from Roger Olson might be helpful here. A man has fallen into a pit, is unconscious, and will eventually die. But God calls out to the man and offers help, awakening him from his unconsciousness. God starts pouring water down into the pit and tells the man that if he will just stay still, he can float on the water up to rescue. All the man has to do is not struggle or try to hold on to the bottom. All he has to do to be saved is surrender.117 His “contribution” to his salvation is the contribution of doing nothing.

A woman brought out a stone pot of hot water and having no cloth , bathed the gouges with soft leaves. Roger smiled at her and the smile she returned was so sweet and tender it seemed she might have been his own mother. He looked around at the kind faces of the world's worst headhunters.

It was as if he was contemptuous of his talent - his acting is suffused with guilt, with a sense of loss, with the water of life flowing by.

Manchester Bay always went big on the fireworks for the Fourth. Synchronized to music, they were launched from the end of the long fishing pier at the opposite end of the beach. A massive crowd gathered in lawn chairs or on blankets on the beach and in the park and then along South Shore Drive, which was barricaded for several blocks to allow for more seating. A flotilla of speedboats and pontoons were anchored in the placid waters of the bay, as well as in front of Mannion’s on the Lake, a restaurant farther northwest up the shoreline.

The Books Lucia’s birthday gifts for September 1st: The Very Hungry Caterpillar by Eric Carle and Peter Pan and Wendy by J. M. Barrie 2nd: Burglar Bill by Janet and Allan Ahlberg 3rd: Dogger by Shirley Hughes 4th: Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland and Through the Looking-Glass by Lewis Carroll 5th: Pollyanna by Eleanor H. Porter 6th: The Wind in the Willows by Kenneth Grahame 7th: The Borrowers by Mary Norton 8th: A Little Princess by Frances Hodgson Burnett 9th: Black Beauty by Anna Sewell 10th: Matilda by Roald Dahl 11th: Little Women by Louisa M. Alcott 12th: To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee 13th: Jane Eyre by Charlotte Brontë 14th: Noughts and Crosses by Malorie Blackman 15th: Fingersmith by Sarah Waters 16th: Northanger Abbey by Jane Austen 17th: Behind the Scenes at the Museum by Kate Atkinson 18th: The Yellow Wallpaper by Charlotte Perkins Gilman 19th: Interpreter of Maladies by Jhumpa Lahiri 20th: Passing by Nella Larsen 21st: Wuthering Heights by Emily Brontë 22nd: The Handmaid’s Tale by Margaret Atwood 23rd: The Vanishing Act of Esme Lennox by Maggie O’Farrell 24th: The Murder of Roger Ackroyd by Agatha Christie 25th: The Other Side of the Story by Marian Keyes 26th: Atonement by Ian McEwan 27th: Small Island by Andrea Levy 28th: Vanity Fair by William Makepeace Thackeray 29th: Why Be Happy When You Could Be Normal? by Jeanette Winterson 30th: Harvest by Jim Crace 31st: A Secret Garden by Katie Fforde 32nd: Beyond Black by Hilary Mantel From Lucia’s life Bird at My Window by Rosa Guy Of Love and Dust by Ernest J. Gaines Ring of Bright Water by Gavin Maxwell A Wrinkle in Time by Madeleine L’Engle The Owl Service by Alan Garner The L-Shaped Room by Lynne Reid Banks I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings by Maya Angelou Fire from Heaven by Mary Renault Story of O by Pauline Réage Illustrated Peter Pan by Arthur Rackham Peter Pan in Kensington Gardens by J. M. Barrie Marina’s recommendation Little House on the Prairie by Laura Ingalls Wilder The book club at September’s house The Color Purple by Alice Walker Rebecca by Daphne du Maurier Silas Marner by George Eliot (The Mill on the Floss also mentioned) Oliver Twist by Charles Dickens The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie by Muriel Spark A Thousand Splendid Suns by Khaled Hosseini Ethan Frome by Edith Wharton A Tree Grows in Brooklyn by Betty Smith The book club’s birthday books for September’s 34th birthday Tipping the Velvet by Sarah Waters We Are Displaced by Malala Yousafzai To Sir, With Love by E. R. Braithwaite Boy Swallows Universe by Trent Dalton Ready Player One by Ernest Cline Treasure Island by Robert Louis Stevenson

Forests fell and burst into flame, the ground shook and split, the waters of the sea rose in gigantic waves and assailed the land, the moon dripped blood and there came up a great wailing.

We entered a long night, and at some point it seemed that our way too us beneath deep waters, bright sea creatures hovering and darting both near at hand and in the middle distance. Dry and uncrushed, the black way protected us.

Seconds after we had seated ourselves, a brilliant flash of light came to us across the water, illuminating the arching dome of the cavern vault like the ribbed interior of some massive beast that was digesting us.

Grosseteste’s disciple at Oxford, the Franciscan friar Roger Bacon, has gained a wider reputation than his master. He held that all natural phenomena are the results of force acting on matter and that force is invariably subject to natural law. He upheld experimentation, believing that results reached “by argument” should be tested in practice. Bacon was a dreamer; he prophesied the coming of mechanical transport on land and water and in the air, and of a world ruled by a technocracy of supermen-scientists. In the meantime, he suggested “crusades of learning” to the Muslim lands to win the Saracens over to Christianity by impressing them with European knowledge. Bacon was a fascinating figure, but modern writers are inclined to downgrade his scientific achievements in comparison with those of Grosseteste.

Far away, across the field the tolling of the iron bell calls the faithful to their knees to hear the softly spoken magic spell

Franz and Lena host a New Year’s Eve dinner for their closest circle; the occasion is bittersweet, as it is also Rune’s birthday. Chandy is detained in the plains, but the regulars—the Kariappas, the Cherians, Gracie Cartwright (but not Llewellyn), Bee and Roger Dutton, the Isaacs, the Singhs—are seated around Lena’s dining table, forearms resting on the damask cloth, the candelabra lighting their faces as in a Rembrandt painting. They toast Rune with plum wine and remember him with tears and laughter

At home in Albuquerque, I can sense the mountains, all the time. Like even when I'm not looking at it, I feel it. It's always there, in the east. Like a wall at my back, holding me up. Steadying me. If I'd been born here instead, maybe the ocean would be like that for me. Maybe I'd always feel the water churning in the west.