Rope Flow Quotes

Almost immediately, I found the red door into the library. I opened it idly- and the breath stopped in my throat. It was the same room I remembered: the shelves, the lion-footed table, the white bass-relief of Clio. But now, tendrils of dark green ivy grew between the shelves, reaching toward the books as if they were hungry to read. White mist flowed along the floor, rippling and tumbling as if blown by wind. Across the ceiling wove a network of icy ropes like tree roots. They dripped- not little droplets like the ice melting off a tree but grape-sized drops of water, like giant tears, that splashed on the table, plopped to the floor.

The rope connecting two men on a mountain is more than nylon protection; it is an organic thing that transmits subtle messages of intent and disposition from man to man; it is an extension of the tactile senses, a psychological bond, a wire along which currents of communication flow.

The circus tent was flowing pale in the rain like a fleshy flower lit from within. It seemed to bloom in the downpour. Drops of rain caught on Rafe's eyelashes, blinding him as the circus light struck them. He groped for the flap, that slit in the fabric that would reveal her to him. She was on the rope again, her skirt flashing with tiny mirrors, hair braided with petals. He looked up at her, dizzy with it, seeing her face framed in the parasol. There were bluish shadows around her eyes.

The Emperor is dead! So too his right hand - now cold, now severed! But mark these dying shadows, twinned and flowing bloody and beaten, down and away from mortal sight... From sceptre's rule dismissed, from gild candelabra the light now fled, from a hearth ringed in hard jewels seven years this warmth has bled... The Emperor is dead. So too his master'd companion, the rope cut clean. But mark this burgeoning return - faltering dark, the tattered shroud - embracing children in Empire's dying light. Hear now the dirge faint reprised, before the sun's fall, this day spills red on buckled earth, and in obsidian eyes vengeance chimes seven times..." ―Call to Shadow, Felisin (I.i. 1-18)

Buddha rode in the trunk, which had to be roped shut. I thought this was going to be the first in a long line of hassles. But, as it turned out, Tsung Tsai was right: Buddha was a breeze. He flowed through the porters, ticket checkers, and security at JFK, gliding on a benevolent cloud. His strange gray Buddha shadow floated on the x-ray monitor. 'Jesus!' said the x-ray operator to the guard. 'Similar', Tsung Tsai said.

all proportion to the small piles of coins accumulating on the table. Apparently the game flows best with four or five, and when no one else is available, they try to rope Cal in; Cal, knowing when he’s outclassed, stays clear. The young guys are going

Those who visited that exhibition-room found an auto-de-fé of immense skies in ignition, globes blotted out by bleeding suns; hemorrhages of stars, flowing down in purple cataracts over tumbling tufts of clouds. Against this background of terrible din, silent women passed, nude or appareled in jeweled stuffs, like the bindings of the old Evangelists; women with hair of shaggy silk, with pale blue eyes, hard and fixed, and flesh of the frozen whiteness of milk; Salomes holding, motionless upon a platter, the head of the Baptist, which shone, soaked in phosphorus, under the quincunxes with shorn leaves, of a green that was almost black; goddesses galloping on hippogriffs and streaking, with the lapis lazuli of their wings, the agony of the clouds; feminine idols, in tiaras, upright on thrones, at the top of stairs submerged in extraordinary flowers, or seated, in rigid poses, upon the backs of elephants with green-mantled foreheads and breasts strung with pearl-ropes like cavalry bells, stamping about upon their own heavy image, reflected in a sheet of water and splashed by the columns of the ring-circled legs!

With rope-ladders learned I to reach many a window, with nimble legs did I climb high masts: to sit on high masts of perception seemed to me no small bliss; To flicker like small flames on high masts: a small light, certainly, but a great comfort to cast-away sailors and shipwrecked ones! By diverse ways and wendings did I arrive at my truth; not by one ladder did I mount to the height where mine eye roveth into my remoteness. And unwillingly only did I ask my way - that was always counter to my taste! Rather did I question and test the ways themselves. A testing and a questioning hath been all my travelling: and verily, one must also learn to answer such questioning! That, however - is my taste: Neither a good nor a bad taste, but my taste, of which I have no longer either shame or secrecy. "This is now my way - where is yours?" Thus did I answer those who asked me "the way." For "the way" - it doth not exist!

The flower-covered grave of the saint in the inner room could be seen dimly through the narrow doorway. In front of it was a wide vestibule where about two dozen people were seated in a circle. One of them was singing lustily some Persian verses, while others kept the time by clapping their hands; they joined in the refrain which was sung in chorus. Like rising tidal waves, the tempo of the singing was getting faster and faster, the clapping became more frantic and heads rolled from side to side, keeping time with the tempestuous melody. Eyes were closed and everyone was lost in the surging waves of emotion that seemed to flow out of the Sufistic poetry of the great Roomi. Then, to his amazement Anwar saw a man in the centre of the crowd open his eyes and stare vacantly. For a moment this man was silent, ominously silent and motionless in the midst of the emotional storm that raged around him. Then he was caught by a sudden frenzy, his whole body quivered and moved, beating time to the song which by now had reached a weird and frightening crescendo, faster and faster, louder and louder. The man's hands rose high in the air and as if clutching at an unseen rope, he raised himself and started to dance, wildly, ecstatically, tearing his clothes and pulling his hair, completely unselfconscious and unrestrained, oblivious of everything by some mysterious inner urge that demanded expression in this wild manner. And then the song died on the lips of the singer, the waves of emotion receded and in the ghostly silence that descended upon the assembly the standing figure of the man in the centre which looked inspired and hallowed a moment ago, suddenly appeared ridiculous and grotesque. For a few moments he stood as if poised for another outburst of frenzy. Then, deprived of the emotional support of the song, his knees sagged and he collapsed to the ground. For several minutes Anwar was speechless; so great had the effect of this spectacle been on him. His pulse beat faster, his mind was in a whirl and, as the song stopped, he felt a gnawing emptiness in his bowels. This then was Qawwali, the ecastatic ritual of the Persian Sufis.

There was one moment of everlasting shame, deeply imprinted on my mind about this time, when we were staying in the country, and M and Aunt Billy came out into the garden where I was playing, and they carried skipping-ropes. Suddenly they both took the pins out of their hair and let the hair flow upon their shoulders, and then they jumped up and down, skipping, as children might do. I felt myself go scarlet. I bent down to the ground, not to see them, and began to search for pebbles in the gravel path. The lower I bent the more they skipped and laughed. Were they doing it on purpose? It was terrible to think of the loose hair and the jumping feet. They had changed from safe people into strangers. Hide me, hide me.…

Sam groaned. A warmth on her face alerted her to the new morning. She opened one eye and peered at the fuzzy daylight streaming in through the window. Her head throbbed like a bitch. Her mouth felt like a carpet. She pushed herself off the couch and stood up shakily, kicking bottles as she stumbled to her small kitchen. Every movement was painful and slow. She was a sloth tight-roping through time. She held onto the basin for a moment to steady herself. She grabbed a plastic cup and opened the tap, letting it flow as she filled and refilled it, gulping down as much water as she could. She splashed her face, neck and chest with water, then refilled the cup and dumped the contents over her head. She stood there, unaware of the moments passing by, as the water dripped down her body. Willing herself to wake up and feel better. Willing the nausea into oblivion.

Letter You can see it already: chalks and ochers; Country crossed with a thousand furrow-lines; Ground-level rooftops hidden by the shrubbery; Sporadic haystacks standing on the grass; Smoky old rooftops tarnishing the landscape; A river (not Cayster or Ganges, though: A feeble Norman salt-infested watercourse); On the right, to the north, bizarre terrain All angular--you'd think a shovel did it. So that's the foreground. An old chapel adds Its antique spire, and gathers alongside it A few gnarled elms with grumpy silhouettes; Seemingly tired of all the frisky breezes, They carp at every gust that stirs them up. At one side of my house a big wheelbarrow Is rusting; and before me lies the vast Horizon, all its notches filled with ocean blue; Cocks and hens spread their gildings, and converse Beneath my window; and the rooftop attics, Now and then, toss me songs in dialect. In my lane dwells a patriarchal rope-maker; The old man makes his wheel run loud, and goes Retrograde, hemp wreathed tightly round the midriff. I like these waters where the wild gale scuds; All day the country tempts me to go strolling; The little village urchins, book in hand, Envy me, at the schoolmaster's (my lodging), As a big schoolboy sneaking a day off. The air is pure, the sky smiles; there's a constant Soft noise of children spelling things aloud. The waters flow; a linnet flies; and I say: "Thank you! Thank you, Almighty God!"--So, then, I live: Peacefully, hour by hour, with little fuss, I shed My days, and think of you, my lady fair! I hear the children chattering; and I see, at times, Sailing across the high seas in its pride, Over the gables of the tranquil village, Some winged ship which is traveling far away, Flying across the ocean, hounded by all the winds. Lately it slept in port beside the quay. Nothing has kept it from the jealous sea-surge: No tears of relatives, nor fears of wives, Nor reefs dimly reflected in the waters, Nor importunity of sinister birds.

Female sensibility is layers, words, membranes, cotton, cloth, rope, repetition, bodies, wet, opening, closing repetition, lists, lifestories, grids, destroying grids, houses, intimacy, doorways, breasts, vaginas, flow, strong, building, putting together many disparaging elements, repetition, red, ink, black, earth feel colors, the sun, the moon, roots skins, walls, yellow, flowers, streams, puzzles, questions, stuffing, sewing, fluffing, satin, hearts, tearing, tearing, tearing, tying, decorating, baking, feeding, holding, listening, seeing thru the layers, oil, varnish, shellac, jell, paste, glue, seeds, thread, more, not less, repetition, women critics, women, writers, women artists, either nourishing us or eating us up alive, tokenism, curators, universities, tokenism, fear of other women to acknowledge female sensibility, hostile boy artists, accepting men artists, separating the men from the boys, dividing women, piece of pie-ism, money, art, sex, beasts, layers, symphonies, multi-roled, multi-part, stories, narrative, paint/flesh, serious, overwhelming, soft, hard, women working, working women, hanging, dangling, breaking, being fruity, angry, naïve, born again and trying to describe hot white flesh ties.

In the Middle of Life After the end of the world after my death I found myself in the middle of life creating myself building a life people animals landscapes this is a table I kept saying this is a table on the table are bread knife the knife is used for cutting bread people feed on bread man should be loved I learned by night by day what should one love I answered man this is a window I kept saying this is a window beyond the winidow is a garden in the garden I see an apple tree the apple tree blossoms the blossoms fall off fruit forms ripens my father picks an apple the man picking the apple is my father I was sitting on the front steps of the house that old woman pulling a goat on a rope is more needed is worth more than the seven wonders of the world anyone who thinks or feels she isn’t needed is guilty of genocide this is a man this is a tree this is bread people eat to live I kept repeating to myself human life is important human life has great importance the value of life exceeds the value of every object man has made man is a great treasure I kept repeating stubbornly this is water I kept saying stroking the waves with my hand talking to the river water I said kind water it is I the man talked to the water talked to the moon to the flowers to the rain he talked to the earth to the birds to the sky the sky was silent the earth was silent if he heard a voice flowing from the earth the water the sky it was the voice of another man

The Golem If (as affirms the Greek in the Cratylus) the name is archetype of the thing, in the letters of “rose” is the rose, and all the Nile flows through the word. Made of consonants and vowels, there is a terrible Name, that in its essence encodes God’s all, power, guarded in letters, in hidden syllables. Adam and the stars knew it in the Garden. It was corroded by sin (the Cabalists say), time erased it, and generations have forgotten. The artifice and candor of man go on without end. We know that there was a time in which the people of God searched for the Name through the ghetto’s midnight hours. But not in that manner of those others whose vague shades insinuate into vague history, his memory is still green and lives, Judá the Lion the rabbi of Prague. In his thirst to know the knowledge of God Judá permutated the alphabet through complex variations and in the end pronounced the name that is the Key the Door, the Echo, the Guest, and the Palace, over a mannequin shaped with awkward hands, teaching it the arcane knowledge of symbols, of Time and Space. The simulacrum raised its sleepy eyelids, saw forms and colors that it did not understand, and confused by our babble made fearful movements. Gradually it was seen to be (as we are) imprisoned in a reverberating net of Before, Later, Yesterday, While, Now, Right, Left, I, You, Those, Others. The Cabalists who celebrated this mysterium, this vast creature, named it Golem. (Written about by Scholem, in a learned passage of his volume.) The rabbi explained the universe to him, “This is my foot, this yours, and this the rope,” but all that happened, after years, was that the creature swept the synagogue badly. Perhaps there was an error in the word or in the articulation of the Sacred Name; in spite of the highest esoteric arts this apprentice of man did not learn to speak. Its eyes uncanny, less like man than dog and much less than dog but thing following the rabbi through the doubtful shadows of the stones of its confinement. There was something abnormal and coarse in the Golem, at its step the rabbi’s cat fled in fear. (That cat not from Scholem but of the blind seer) It would ape the rabbi’s devotions, raising its hands to the sky, or bend over, stupidly smiling, into hollow Eastern salaams. The rabbi watched it tenderly but with some horror. How (he said) could I engender this laborious son? Better to have done nothing, this is insanity. Why did I give to the infinite series a symbol more? To the coiled skein on which the eternal thing is wound, I gave another cause, another effect, another grief. In this hour of anguish and vague light, on the Golem our eyes have stopped. Who will say the things to us that God felt, at the sight of his rabbi in Prague?

At the end of his rope, Edgar undergoes the most existential and orthopedic of surprises. He is jerked back into unsolicited new life by the very rope he’d fashioned like a tourniquet to cut off the flow of pain. Something clicks in the spine, the ear, the heart.

Tell me, does it seem worth it to you to suffer this punishment for a rag?” “Without question,” Steldor forcefully answered, and cheers rolled like thunder through the Hytanicans who had gathered to watch, sending chills down my spine. Rava’s lip curled into a sneer and she walked behind him, motioning to the Cokyrians holding the ropes to pull them tight, spreading his arms wide. With a swift and practiced motion, she raised the whip and brought it down hard upon his broad back, drawing blood with her first stroke, and gasps reverberated almost as loudly as had the cheers. “Is it worth it?” she demanded. “Yes,” he managed to answer, gritting his teeth against the pain. She struck him twice more, and though I could hardly bear it, I forced myself to watch, the muscles of my back spasming as each stroke landed. “Is it worth it?” “Yes!” Once more she struck, and again, until the ragged flesh and sinew of Steldor’s back was coated with blood--blood that flowed so heavily it ran down his sides. Women in the crowd now wept openly, while men cursed and shouted. I took in a shaky breath, knowing only one lash remained. Steldor would survive, and so would I. So would we all. Rava brought the whip down on Steldor for the sixth time, and his head hung forward. Was he still conscious? Or were the ropes around his wrists the only things keeping him from collapsing? Evidently wondering the same, Rava approached him and reached down, grasping a handful of his nearly black hair to pull his head up. His eyes were open, but barely focused. “Tell me, boy. Is it worth it?” she said in a near whisper. He smiled, revealing teeth smeared with blood from biting his tongue to hold back screams. “Yes.” Rage marred Rava’s face at her inability to break him, and she brutally shoved his head down. Backing up, she uncoiled the whip that was supposed to have retired, and flayed him again, more viciously than before. Steldor cried out this time, the sound tearing at my heart, and when the soldiers dropped the ropes, he crumpled forward. Knowing he had to be in tremendous pain, I was thankful for the respite the darkness would provide. Silence now reigned around us--no voices, no movements, hardly any breathing. It felt like the world had temporarily been turned to stone. Rava handed the whip to another soldier and stalked back toward the Bastion without a glance or word for anyone. She was cruel and heartless and arrogant, and hatred for her boiled within me as I watched the Cokyrians remove the ropes from Steldor’s wrists. They hauled him up by his arms and dragged him inside, leaving a crimson trail on the white walk. The rest of us followed, and I glanced at Cannan, who had managed more stoicism during the proceeding than had I. He had been witness to greater brutality during both wars with Cokyri, but I knew he would have willingly taken his son’s punishment in his stead. After seeing him in the cave, holding and protecting Steldor when we’d all feared the King’s death, I knew that beneath his strength and bravery, he ached.

Now as they made their way through the exuberantly crowded village, Daisy understood what Westcliff had meant. It was still early evening, and already it appeared that copiously flowing wine had loosened inhibitions. People were embracing, arguing, laughing and playing. Some were laying floral wreaths at the base of the oldest oak trees, or pouring wine at the roots, or… “Good Lord,” Daisy said, her attention caught by a perplexing sight in the distance, “what are they doing to that poor tree?” Matthew’s hands clasped her head and firmly aimed her face in another direction. “Don’t look.” “Was it some form of tree-worship or—” “Let’s go watch the rope-dancers,” he said with sudden enthusiasm, guiding her to the other side of the green.

June 10, 1995 I seen John the Baptist on my dream. I was walking in a valley of wheat as I was walking toward west seeing waives of wheat flowing, as I kept walking from far away I see a white thing walking in the middle of the wheat coming toward the direction I was walking we meet in the middle and he kept walking toward me, as we got loser I realized it was an old man with white long shoulder length hair, and a white long rope, as I got closer I stopped, and steering at him and I asked him "Who are you?" He said "Don't be affright I'm John the Baptist" I said what do you want" He reply I don't want anything from you, I'm here to tell you "We have a gift for you" This is my 3rd dream I would like to know what these dream mean, if you do you can you tell me?

The Clock Cell A Poem by Rosa Jamali Something happens to die And the sunlight which has been soaking is wet and obscure If I carry on the lines The frozen object which has been captured in your hands will drop Otherwise, the day has come to an end. Void When I get home; staring at all those cubical shapes; Standstill current of water And the sunlight which is never damp On the blank sheets of writing bursting into tears over old sheets on my bed. The elements Its essence has been painted by my blood The rain of cats and dogs on my field The moon is encompassing the land! Here with the frostbite on the iron post, I left the time on the river bank Time was a whim slipped away from my fingers The moments have been cleaned and cleared. The wall has turned blue Me and the black gown Have taken the flow of the river. It's a calf death breast-fed. What is it? Sediments on a neutral background It could be in a different colour It's been many days since I started walking on the rope The creased moon is hanging down the ceiling. Blizzard A flimsy stone The frostbite on the window glass The bridge has fallen down Silence on a metal tape Ending to a blind full stop. (TRANSLATED FROM ORIGINAL PERSIAN TO ENGLISH BY ROSA JAMALI)

But he was mesmerised by the necessity of completing his task. The mizzen stay parted under his axe; he saw another rope draw up taut, and cut that as well — the pattern of the seams of the deck planking at that point caught his notice — felt another severed and flick past him, and then knew that the Lydia was free from the wreckage. Almost at his feet lay young Clay, sprawled upon the deck, but Clay had no head. He noted that as an interesting phenomenon, like the pattern of the deck seams.

traditional weapons of the samurai Dim Mak Death Touch doku poison dōshin Edo-period police officers of samurai origin (low rank) endan ninja smoke bombs fugu blowfish or puffer fish Fuma Wind Demons gaijin foreigner, outsider (derogatory term) geisha a Japanese girl trained to entertain men with conversation, dance and song haiku Japanese short poem hamon artistic pattern created on a samurai sword blade during tempering process hashi chopsticks horagai conch-shell trumpet horoku a spherical bomb thrown by hand using a short rope itadakimasu let’s eat! kagemusha a Shadow Warrior kamikaze lit. ‘divine wind’, or ‘Wind of the Gods’ kanji Chinese characters that are used also by the Japanese katana long sword ki energy flow or life force (Chinese: chi) kiai literally ‘concentrated spirit’ – used in martial arts as a shout for focusing energy when executing a technique kimono traditional Japanese clothing kissaki tip of sword koban Japanese oval gold coin

It’s a geode. You can sess that, the way the rock around you abruptly changes to something else. The pebble in the stream, the warp in the weft; countless aeons ago a bubble formed in a flow of molten mineral within Father Earth. Within that pocket, nurtured by incomprehensible pressures and bathed in water and fire, crystals grew. This one’s the size of a city. Which is probably why someone built a city in this one. You stand before a vast, vaulted cavern that is full of glowing crystal shafts the size of tree trunks. Big tree trunks. Or buildings. Big buildings. They jut forth from the walls in an utterly haphazard jumble: different lengths, different circumferences, some white and translucent and a few smoky or tinged with purple. Some are stubby, their pointed tips ending only a few feet away from the walls that grew them—but many stretch from one side of the vast cavern into the indistinct distance. They form struts and roads too steep to climb, going in directions that make no sense. It is as if someone found an architect, made her build a city out of the most beautiful materials available, then threw all those buildings into a box and jumbled them up for laughs. And they’re definitely living in it. As you stare, you notice narrow rope bridges and wooden platforms everywhere. There are dangling lines strung with electric lanterns, ropes and pulleys carrying small lifts from one platform to another. In the distance a man walks down a wooden stairway built around a titanic slanted column of white; two children play on the ground far below, in between stubby crystals the size of houses. Actually, some of the crystals are houses. They have holes cut in them—doors and windows. You can see people moving around inside some of them. Smoke curls from chimney holes cut in pointed crystal tips.

Line of AuNor, dragon bold Flows to me from days of old, And through years lost in the mist My blood names a famous list. By Air, by Water, by Fire, by Earth In pride I claim a noble birth. From EmLar Gray, a deadly deed By his flame Urlant was freed, Of fearsome hosts of blighters dark And took his reward: a golden ark! My Mother’s sire knew battle well Before him nine-score villages fell. When AuRye Red coursed the sky Elven arrows in vain would fly, He broke the ranks of men at will In glittering mines dwarves he’d kill. Grandsire he is through Father’s blood A river of strength in fullest flood. My egg was one of Irelia’s Clutch Her wisdom passed in mental touch. Mother took up before ever I woke The parent dragon’s heavy yoke; For me, her son, she lost her life Murderous dwarves brought blackened knife. A father I had in the Bronze AuRel Hunter of renown upon wood and fell He gave his clutch through lessons hard A chance at life beyond his guard. Father taught me where, and when, and how To fight or flee, so I sing now. Wistala, sibling, brilliant green Escaped with me the axes keen We hunted as pair, made our kill From stormy raindrops drank our fill When elves and dwarves took after us I told her “Run,” and lost her thus. Bound by ropes; by Hazeleye freed And dolphin-rescued in time of need I hid among men with fishing boats On island thick with blown sea-oats I became a drake and breathed first fire When dolphin-slaughter aroused my ire. I ran with wolves of Blackhard’s pack Killed three hunters on my track The Dragonblade’s men sought my hide But I escaped through a fangèd tide Of canine friends, assembled Thing Then met young Djer, who cut collar-ring. I crossed the steppes with dwarves of trade On the banks of the Vhydic Ironriders slayed Then sought out NooMoahk, dragon black And took my Hieba daughter back To find her kind; then took first flight Saw NooMoahk buried in honor right. When war came to friends I long had known My path was set, my heart was stone I sought the source of dreadful hate And on this Isle I met my fate Found Natasatch in a cavern deep So I had one more promise to keep. To claim this day my life’s sole mate In future years to share my fate A dragon’s troth is this day pledged To she who’ll see me fully fledged. Through this dragon’s life, as dragon-dame shall add your blood to my family’s fame.

Climbing, it turns out, is a nearly perfect vehicle for flow, which may be one of the reasons it has become so popular. For the climber, the goal may be to successfully climb a difficult rock pitch without falling. It is a meaningful, challenging goal that requires skill and focused attention because you will fall off if you fail to hang on. It provides immediate feedback. For the free-solo climber, who chooses to climb the pitch without a rope or protection, the goal is even more meaningful and challenging and requires even more intense focus. The feedback is also starkly clear and immediate—you don’t just fall if you fail to hang on; you probably die.

Hailey doubted Poseidon appreciated the conversion of his palace into a school, but he wasn’t in a position to complain considering he, and every other god, was dead. And had been for sixteen centuries now—compliments to humans killing them in the Great Battle. Although Hailey supposed you could say they had lived on—at least in a small way—because when they’d died, their powers had showered from the sky to the human race, turning everyone into demigods. And since then, the gods’ powers have passed down through each generation, so every human in the world has a power. The cold touch of a raindrop sliding down Hailey’s cheek had her gazing up at a grey cloud encroaching on the sun. She flicked her hand at it, watching the cloud speed away out of sight, leaving the sky azure blue. Hailey was a Zeus. The only Zeus in over a century, to be exact, which meant her powers came with certain expectations. Her mind flashed back to the last Powers class she’d had before the summer holidays... Hailey stood in a grassy field, the sweet and earthy scent of rain hanging in the air. Her teacher, Mrs Pritchet, loomed behind her with the rest of her class. But Hailey was too busy focusing her powers to remember they were there. Warmth flowed through her fingertips towards the black sky, and a rope-shaped tornado whirled to life fifty yards ahead of her.

The actor must not only 'do his job' in a conscientious manner, which is what anyone must do; he must also trap his unconscious (a neat trick) and he must trap it on cue (a neater trick). [...] Should the actor work out the details of his part in personal terms, should he succeed in engaging his own secret anxieties and enjoyments - his private beliefs, his dream-life characteristics, should he then insinuate these secrets into the ebbing and flowing of the play, he will be inevitably swept into the main lines of the action - he will be forced unconsciously from point to point in his performance. The more certainly and firmly these guide ropes have been rigged, the more the actor can afford to forget them and begin to shade his playing. Most observes say to actors, 'How do you remember all those lines?' What a lovely irony, since the actor's most elusive achievement is to forget them! Or, to put it more clearly, to know them so well and to understand their implications so well that he can afford to forget them. Marlon Brando once said, 'I am good when I forget. When I can sit on stage and think of catching a fish. I have just sunk the hook, there's a tug on the line, and at that preoccupied moment, I hear my cue. My God, what is my line? And then I say my line, because the motor memory will save you if you really believe. So I say my line, the line I thought I'd forgotten, and it's good, man. It's really good.' Sounds mysterious, but it isn't. It is merely a neat trick. Catching Pegasus by the heel is a neat trick. It proceeds not from hard labor but from a knowledge of the self. Such knowledge is hard-bought, but it is not like digging ditches. It is a giving-over of the ego. [...]

The actor must not only 'do his job' in a conscientious manner, which is what anyone must do; he must also trap his unconscious (a neat trick) and he must trap it on cue (a neater trick). [...] Should the actor work out the details of his part in personal terms, should he succeed in engaging his own secret anxieties and enjoyments - his private beliefs, his dream-life characteristics, should he then insinuate these secrets into the ebbing and flowing of the play, he will be inevitably swept into the main lines of the action - he will be forced unconsciously from point to point in his performance. The more certainly and firmly these guide ropes have been rigged, the more the actor can afford to forget them and begin to shade his playing. Most observes say to actors, 'How do you remember all those lines?' What a lovely irony, since the actor's most elusive achievement is to forget them! Or, to put it more clearly, to know them so well and to understand their implications so well that he can afford to forget them. Marlon Brando once said, 'I am good when I forget. When I can sit on stage and think of catching a fish. I have just sunk the hook, there's a tug on the line, and at that preoccupied moment, I hear my cue. My God, what is my line? And then I say my line, because the motor memory will save you if you really believe. So I say my line, the line I thought I'd forgotten, and it's good, man. It's really good.' Sounds mysterious, but it isn't. It is merely a neat trick. Catching Pegasus by the heel is a neat trick. It proceeds not from hard labor but from a knowledge of the self. Such knowledge is hard-bought, but it is not like digging ditches. It is a giving-over of the ego.

The horses, reluctant and excited from the first, become furious and wild. At the next shoal-personal nastiness being past consideration-we dismount, at knee-deep, to give them a moment's rest, shifting the mule's saddle to the trembling long-legged mare, and turning Mr. Brown loose, to follow as he could. After a breathing-spell we resume our splashed seats and the line of wade. Experience has taught us something, and we are more shrewd in choice of footing, the slopes around large trees being attractively high ground, until, by a stumble on a covered root, a knee is nearly crushed against a cypress trunk. Gullies now commence, cut by the rapid course of waters flowing off before north winds, in which it is good luck to escape instant drowning. Then quag again; the pony bogs; the mare, quivering and unmanageable, jumps sidelong among loose corduroy; and here are two riders standing waist-deep in mud and water between two frantic, plunging-horses, fortunately not beneath them. Nack soon extricates himself, and joins the mule, looking on terrified from behind. Fanny, delirious, believes all her legs broken and strewn about her, and falls, with a whining snort, upon her side. With incessant struggles she makes herself a mud bath, in which, with blood-shot eyes, she furiously rotates, striking, now and then, some stump, against which she rises only to fall upon the other side, or upon her back, until her powers are exhausted, and her head sinks beneath the surface. Mingled with our uppermost sympathy are thoughts of the soaked note-books, and other contents of the saddle-bags, and of the.hundred dollars that drown with her. What of dense soil there was beneath her is now stirred to porridge, and it is a dangerous exploit to approach. But, with joint hands, we length succeed in grappling her bridle, and then in hauling her nostrils above water. She revives only for a new tumult of dizzy pawing, before which we hastily retreat. At a second pause her lariat is secured, and the saddle cut adrift. For a half-hour the alternate resuscitation continues, until we are able to drag the head of the poor beast, half strangled by the rope, as well as the mud and water, toward firmer ground, where she recovers slowly her senses and her footing. Any further attempts at crossing the somewhat "wet" Neches bottoms are, of course, abandoned, and even the return to the ferry is a serious sort of joke. However, we congratulate ourselves that we are leaving, not entering the State.

Saved by the bell! We all three jumped as the signal rang close above our heads. On a normal day the class would have flowed politely around Ms. Abernathy standing in the doorway. They might even have waited until she moved. But this bell let us out of school for winter break. Ms. Abernathy got caught in the current of students pouring out of her classroom and down the hall. If she floated as far as the next wing maybe a history teacher would throw her a rope and tow her to safety.

I wonder what would happen if the days were not pushed? What would happen if the time flowed in its natural sequence? The sky edging from darkness to gray, rising like a tide of light, pushing the flotsam of cloud upward. And then the sun’s rim, liquid gold, the slant of light through twigs and leaf. What would happen if you watched time’s river rise and flow, lifting you on its back and carrying you on its crest, until, lying back, you rested on the receding light, languishing in the slow pools of afternoon, the tips of the firs trembling and lifting, the ropes of birch leaves swaying in the light like sea kelp. To the west, the evening glow would linger, holding on to color. What if you could watch until the last drops spilled from the edge and then you came to know the night? Oh, but what would be served by such a life? Observation. Contemplation. Deliberation. What if your life came unplugged, disconnected, out of sync with the rest of the world? What if you rode this planet on one full circle round its star paying attention to light and plants and water? Seeing the way rain gathers in puddles or dew beads on grass, noticing the day violets open under the firs or ants appear in the bathroom? You could, you know. Shut off the bells. You could cut loose, unplug, begin. You could improve the nick of time.

If I were the trees . . . I would turn my leaves to gold and scatter them toward the sky so they would circle about your head and fall in piles at your feet . . . so you might know wonder. If I were the mountains . . . I would crumble down and lift you up so you could see all of my secret places, where the rivers flow and the animals run wild . . . so you might know freedom. I’m using inflections in my voice to keep Nisay’s attention. However it’s Ki whom I’ve roped in. He sits wide-eyed as a curious little boy at story time. If I were the ocean . . . I would raise you onto my gentle waves and carry you across the seas to swim with the whales and the dolphins in the moonlit waters, so you might know peace. If I were the stars . . . I would sparkle like never before and fall from the sky as gentle rain, so that you would always look towards heaven and know that you can reach the stars. If I were the moon . . . I would scoop you up and sail you through the sky and show you the Earth below in all its wonder and beauty, so you might know that all the Earth is at your command. If I were the sun . . . I would warm and glow like never before and light the sky with orange and pink, so you would gaze upward and always know the glory of heaven. But I am me . . . and since I am the one who loves you, I will wrap you in my arms and kiss you and love you with all of my heart, and this I will do until . . . the mountains crumble down . . . and the oceans dry up . . . and the stars fall from the sky . . . and the sun and moon burn out . . . And that is forever.

Ties to people should not bind so tightly that we cannot see past the ropes. We must follow the proper path, even if it must be marched alone.

Kaikora wore her bronzed, ombre dreadlocks loose with the sea-salt-saturated ends falling between her wide shoulders. She stood unusually tall, broad, and scantily clad; a half-naked giant of rippled muscles etched with dark tattoos. The wavelike designs crossed her torso and arms in seaweed-green swirls that ebbed and flowed with her musculature. On her neck, she wore a yoke of gnarled rope and sea glass, the only article of clothing above her waist. It barely covered her chest, exposing her ample torso to the elements. On her wide, curved hips hung a low loincloth crafted from nacreous scales that reflected the sunlight like the surf.

nothing as Luke, with a hint of a grin on his now-ugly face, tied my hands with a hemp rope to a post. I said nothing as my shirt was ripped, by someone unidentified, from my body. I said nothing as the leather stung me, ripped me, burned me. Before I passed out, I was surprised by the realization that my flowing