Sacramento Quotes

Space is about 100 kilometers away. That’s far away—I wouldn’t want to climb a ladder to get there—but it isn’t that far away. If you’re in Sacramento, Seattle, Canberra, Kolkata, Hyderabad, Phnom Penh, Cairo, Beijing, central Japan, central Sri Lanka, or Portland, space is closer than the sea.

No sé si recordarte es un acto de desesperación o elegancia en un mundo donde al fin el único sacramento ha llegado a ser el suicidio.

perhaps something else besides, for Sacramento is California, and California is a place in which a boom mentality and a sense of Chekhovian loss meet in uneasy suspension; in which the mind is troubled by some buried but ineradicable suspicion that things had better work here, because here, beneath that immense bleached sky, is where we run out of continent.

The Hell's Angels are very definitely a lower-class phenomenon, but their backgrounds are not necessarily poverty-stricken. Despite some grim moments, their parents seem to have had credit. Most of the outlaws are the sons of people who came to California either just before or during World War II. Many have lost contact with their families, and I have never met an Angel who claimed to have a hometown in any sense that people who use that term might understand it. Terry the Tramp, for instance, is "from" Detroit, Norfolk, Long Island, Los Angeles, Fresno and Sacramento. As a child, he lived all over the country, not in poverty but in total mobility. Like most of the others, he has no roots. He relates entirely to the present, the moment, the action.

Then it happened. One night as the rain beat on the slanted kitchen roof a great spirit slipped forever into my life. I held his book in my hands and trembled as he spoke to me of man and the world, of love and wisdom, pain and guilt, and I knew I would never be the same. His name was Fyodor Mikhailovich Dostoyevsky. He knew more of fathers and sons than any man in the world, and of brothers and sisters, priests and rogues, guilt and innocence. Dostoyevsky changed me. The Idiot, The Possessed, The Brothers Karamazov, The Gambler. He turned me inside out. I found I could breathe, could see invisible horizons. The hatred for my father melted. I loved my father, poor, suffering, haunted wretch. I loved my mother too, and all my family. It was time to become a man, to leave San Elmo and go out into the world. I wanted to think and feel like Dostoyevsky. I wanted to write. The week before I left town the draft board summoned me to Sacramento for my physical. I was glad to go. Someone other than myself could make my decisions. The army turned me down. I had asthma. Inflammation of the bronchial tubes. “That’s nothing. I’ve always had it.” “See your doctor.” I got the needed information from a medical book at the public library. Was asthma fatal? It could be. And so be it. Dostoyevsky had epilepsy, I had asthma. To write well a man must have a fatal ailment. It was the only way to deal with the presence of death.

At five of five, I called the airline number—800-FUCK-YOU—and was told I had to speak directly to lost luggage at the Sacramento Airport. No one answered in Sacramento, though my call was important to them.

Don't get me wrong. Sacramento is a lovely place, particularly for those with a fondness for methamphetamines. For the meth-addled, Sacramento had conveniently placed a Greyhound bus station just yards from the statehouse where Austria's finest was sworn in as governor of the great state of California.

In Sacramento it is fiery summer always, and you can gather roses, and eat strawberries and ice cream, and wear white linen clothes, and pant and perspire, at eight or nine o'clock in the morning, and then take the cars, and at noon put on your furs and your skates, and go skimming over frozen Donner Lake...There is transition for you! Where will you find another like it in the western hemisphere?

US crime rates show a steady rise in violent crime throughout the 1960s and ’70s, peaking in 1980. Taxi Driver came out in February 1976; the bleak and violent film was hailed as an encapsulation of its time, to no one’s surprise. Many retired cops I talk to, from Sacramento but other places too, uniformly recall 1968 to 1980 as a particularly grim period.

If you’re in Sacramento, Seattle, Canberra, Kolkata, Hyderabad, Phnom Penh, Cairo, Beijing, central Japan, central Sri Lanka, or Portland, space is closer than the sea.

Why the long face? Something happen?" "Nothing except my grandmother is still dead and my aunt moved to Sacramento and my sister just got out of a mental hospital." "Oh," Huey says. I spread my sack out, ready to load. Huey folds his handkerchief in half then in half again. I need him to check my count before I can go. "Which part of Sacramento," he says, and I shrug.

It’s too late now. The game’s been won by companies who don’t two shits about community character or decent jobs. Congratufuckinglations, America! We did the deal. Now we’ve got an unlimited supply of cheap commodities and unhealthy food and crumbling downtowns, no sense of place, and a permanent under class. Yay. The underclass isn’t relegated to urban ghettos either. It’s coast to coast and especially in between. Take US 50 west from Kansas City to Sacramento or US 6 from Chicago to California and you’ll see a couple thousand miles of corn, soybeans, and terminally ill towns. It looks like a scene from The Walking Dead. If there’s such a thing as the American Heartland, it has a stake through it.

...it was easy to forget that Washington was just another glum city of government, like Albany or Sacramento, legislators and lobbyists and bureaucrats and their clerks working and reworking the sodden language of government in order to distribute the spoils.

So safe had the Oregon Trail become that by 1860 the newly formed Pony Express began carrying mail along a 2,000-mile route between St. Joseph, Missouri, and Sacramento, California, completing the circuit in ten days during good weather and fourteen in the dead of winter.

Why don’t I give her a bottle while you eat. I brought coffee.” “Really, I didn’t know they made men like you,” she said, letting him follow her into the kitchen. When he put down the plate and thermos, she handed over the baby and tested the bottle. “You seem very comfortable with a newborn. For a man. A man with some nieces in Sacramento.” He just smiled at her. She passed him the bottle and got out two coffee mugs.

They were Chinese vampires. They were discovered during renovation work at the Bok Kai Temple in Old Sacramento. One of the priests there told his brother about them. The brother's whatever the Chinese version of mobbed up is. Alex here thinks he's using them to distract the Nortenos and the Black Dragons long enough to take over the marijuana trade in Sacramento using the stuff they're making in a bunch of grow houses in Elk Grove." Ted stared at me. "And will the Chinese vampires be joined by legions of Korean werewolves who have been cooking meth in trailer parks in Truckee? "No. The werewolves are refusing to get involved. Trust me, I've tried to talk them into helping. They'll have nothing to do with it.

In a single twenty-four-hour period, between May 17 and May 18, the Sacramento Sheriff’s Department received 6,169 calls, almost all of them about the East Area Rapist.

Did not the Donner-Reed Party, after all, eat its own dead to reach Sacramento?

Sacramento teems with angles to explore. What brought him here? Is it a coincidence that all branches of the military transferred their navigation training to Mather Air Force Base on July 1, 1976, just as the rapes began?

But perhaps it is presumptuous of me to assume that they will be missing something. Perhaps in retrospect this has been a story not about Sacramento at all, but about the things we lose and the promises we break as we grow older;

¿Qué tratas de hacer ahora? Bautizar a unos hombres que no creen en el Señor para tu propio beneficio es un pecado y una profanación. Y también un acto de arrogancia mediante el cual cargas al Señor con los pecados de hombres sin fe mediante el sacramento del bautismo.

When California goes bankrupt, the Golden State's woes will be nationalized and shared with the nation at large: the feckless must have their irresponsibility rewarded and the prudent get stuck with the tab. Passing Sacramento's buck to Washington accelerates the centralizing pull in American politics and eventually eliminates any advantage to voting with your feet. It will be as if California and New York have burst their bodices like two corpulent gin-soaked trollops and rolled over the fruited plain to rub bellies at the Mississippi. If you're underneath, it's not going to be fun.

Nixon watched it, the usual mixture of feelings stirred in him. He could never quite make up his mind about the man. Reagan had been too smart to let Ford lure him into the cabinet; you had to give him that. But he’d always had it too easy, especially with the goddamned Republican Party in California. Usually so lazy, they’d gone all out for him in ’66 and made it possible for him to do what Richard Nixon, an ex–vice president, hadn’t been able to four years earlier: send Pat Brown packing from Sacramento. (Christ, Brown’s kid Jerry had moved awfully fast! Now the governor at thirty-eight.

Alì dagli Occhi Azzurri uno dei tanti figli di figli, scenderà da Algeri, su navi a vela e a remi. Saranno con lui migliaia di uomini coi corpicini e gli occhi di poveri cani dei padri sulle barche varate nei Regni della Fame. Porteranno con sè i bambini, e il pane e il formaggio, nelle carte gialle del Lunedì di Pasqua. Porteranno le nonne e gli asini, sulle triremi rubate ai porti coloniali. Sbarcheranno a Crotone o a Palmi, a milioni, vestiti di stracci asiatici, e di camicie americane. Subito i Calabresi diranno, come da malandrini a malandrini: «Ecco i vecchi fratelli, coi figli e il pane e formaggio!» Da Crotone o Palmi saliranno a Napoli, e da lì a Barcellona, a Salonicco e a Marsiglia, nelle Città della Malavita. Anime e angeli, topi e pidocchi, col germe della Storia Antica voleranno davanti alle willaye. Essi sempre umili Essi sempre deboli essi sempre timidi essi sempre infimi essi sempre colpevoli essi sempre sudditi essi sempre piccoli, essi che non vollero mai sapere, essi che ebbero occhi solo per implorare, essi che vissero come assassini sotto terra, essi che vissero come banditi in fondo al mare, essi che vissero come pazzi in mezzo al cielo, essi che si costruirono leggi fuori dalla legge, essi che si adattarono a un mondo sotto il mondo essi che credettero in un Dio servo di Dio, essi che cantavano ai massacri dei re, essi che ballavano alle guerre borghesi, essi che pregavano alle lotte operaie... ... deponendo l’onestà delle religioni contadine, dimenticando l’onore della malavita, tradendo il candore dei popoli barbari, dietro ai loro Alì dagli Occhi Azzurri - usciranno da sotto la terra per uccidere – usciranno dal fondo del mare per aggredire - scenderanno dall’alto del cielo per derubare - e prima di giungere a Parigi per insegnare la gioia di vivere, prima di giungere a Londra per insegnare a essere liberi, prima di giungere a New York, per insegnare come si è fratelli - distruggeranno Roma e sulle sue rovine deporranno il germe della Storia Antica. Poi col Papa e ogni sacramento andranno su come zingari verso nord-ovest con le bandiere rosse di Trotzky al vento...

That’s what cousin Mark says. We are going to send the twins to the kindergarten next month.” “What’s the kindergarten?” “Oh, they teach them to make things out of straw and toothpicks—kind of a play place to keep them off the street.” “There’s one up on Sacramento Street, not far from Polk Street. I saw the sign.

I've been accepted to UC Davis. Heading to Sacramento in a few weeks, so I won't be here when you return. Should I send your jacket to Camp Pendleton? - Haley Negative, Haley Cooper. Will collect it in person... along with something else I promised myself. - Reid In your dreams, Marine - Haley Every single night, sweetheart - Reid

Ja tylko chcę być raz w życiu człowiekiem! Ja chcę raz w życiu zobaczyć, że nie jestem inny! Że jestem postacią, która ma własne życie!

Not everyone is going to like you, son. And good people don't do good so that they'll win popularity contests. They do good because its the right thing to do.

The element of surprise is proven to intensify emotional experiences and boost the recall of these experiences.

Una vez que hayas hecho del mundo un fin, y de la fe un medio, ya casi has vencido a tu hombre, e importa muy poco qué clase de fin mundano persiga. Con tal de que los mítines, panfletos, políticas, movimientos, causas y cruzadas le importen más que las oraciones, los sacramentos y la caridad, será nuestro; y cuanto más “religioso” (en ese sentido), más seguramente nuestro.

Calling pronouns like ze and hir “new pronouns” or “neopronouns” is misleading too, because these words are relatively old. They may be enjoying a renaissance today, but ze appears in 1864, introduced by someone known only by the initials J. W. L., and hir first popped up a century ago, invented, or at least introduced to readers in California, by the editor of the Sacramento Bee on August 14, 1920.

On April 6, 2001, two days after the news linking the East Area Rapist and the Original Night Stalker hit the media, the phone rang in a house on Thornwood Drive in east Sacramento. A woman in her early sixties answered. She’d lived in the house for nearly thirty years, though her last name had changed. “Hello?” The voice was low. He spoke slowly. She recognized it immediately. “Remember when we played?

En resumen, fuertes razones teológicas, que tocan a la unidad de creación y redención, mueven a ver cualquier matrimonio válido entre bautizados como sacramento. Si hay sacramento, hay matrimonio natural, y viceversa. Tal unidad no es solo debida a un decreto eclesial, sino que pertenece a la esencia misma de la redención del amor que Jesús lleva a cabo y, por tanto, a la esencia misma del sacramento del matrimonio.

This wasn’t the first time Maureen encountered fellow white people who assumed she shared their racial fears. She recalls with overwhelming fondness her years teaching at Sacramento High, the public charter school whose students were all from working-class backgrounds and mostly African American, with a small percentage of Hmong and Latinx kids. “These were the best students of my career,” she said. “If I gave the students something to read, they read it in three days. I would sometimes plan a lesson [unit] to go on for four or five weeks, and they were done in two weeks and wanted to write the paper because they were excited.” Yet the most frequent question Maureen received from her white friends about the school and its students was “Are you scared?” Her response: “Scared of what? Don’t be scared of Black kids. Be scared for them.

Nora Ephron is a screenwriter whose scripts for Silkwood, When Harry Met Sally, and Sleepless in Seattle have all been nominated for Academy Awards. Ephron started her career as a journalist for the New York Post and Esquire. She became a journalist because of her high school journalism teacher. Ephron still remembers the first day of her journalism class. Although the students had no journalism experience, they walked into their first class with a sense of what a journalist does: A journalists gets the facts and reports them. To get the facts, you track down the five Ws—who, what, where, when, and why. As students sat in front of their manual typewriters, Ephron’s teacher announced the first assignment. They would write the lead of a newspaper story. The teacher reeled off the facts: “Kenneth L. Peters, the principal of Beverly Hills High School, announced today that the entire high school faculty will travel to Sacramento next Thursday for a colloquium in new teaching methods. Among the speakers will be anthropologist Margaret Mead, college president Dr. Robert Maynard Hutchins, and California governor Edmund ‘Pat’ Brown.” The budding journalists sat at their typewriters and pecked away at the first lead of their careers. According to Ephron, she and most of the other students produced leads that reordered the facts and condensed them into a single sentence: “Governor Pat Brown, Margaret Mead, and Robert Maynard Hutchins will address the Beverly Hills High School faculty Thursday in Sacramento. . .blah, blah, blah.” The teacher collected the leads and scanned them rapidly. Then he laid them aside and paused for a moment. Finally, he said, “The lead to the story is ‘There will be no school next Thursday.’” “It was a breathtaking moment,” Ephron recalls. “In that instant I realized that journalism was not just about regurgitating the facts but about figuring out the point. It wasn’t enough to know the who, what, when, and where; you had to understand what it meant. And why it mattered.” For the rest of the year, she says, every assignment had a secret—a hidden point that the students had to figure out in order to produce a good story.

By May 16, a surge of newly installed floodlights lit up the east side like a Christmas tree. In one house tambourines were tied to every door and window. Hammers went under pillows. Nearly three thousand guns were sold in Sacramento County between January and May. Many people refused to sleep between one and four a.m. Some couples slept in shifts, one of them always stationed on the living room couch, a rifle pointed at the window.

If I could make you understand that, I could make you understand California and perhaps something else besides, for Sacramento is California, and California is a place in which a boom mentality and a sense of Chekhovian loss meet in uneasy suspension; in which the mind is troubled by some buried but ineradicable suspicion that things had better work here, because here, beneath that immense bleached sky, is where we run out of continent.

Between Roseville and Sacramento the land flattens and is crowded and we have reached, or returned to, cluttered America living close enough to each other to hear and recite the neighbors’ quarrels and exclamations of joy and grief, the only spaces those cleared of trees and reserved for sport: softball diamonds and golf courses. I am saddened by what we make: the buildings where they might as well hang a sign: THIS UGLY PLACE IS WHERE YOU WORK, the playing fields and parks, and the house to contain you. While somehow there is a trick at work and you have been removed not only from the land itself, but from its spirit; or, as Sharon says, the heart. After the open country and mountains, the earth looks punished, and it is hard to believe that its people have not been punished as well, for nothing more than the desire to love and to prove oneself worthy of that by going to work. West

What I actually had on my mind that year in New York - had on my mind as opposed to in my mind- was a longing for California, a homesickness, a nostalgia so obsessive that nothing else figured. In order to discover what was on my mind I needed room. I needed room for the rivers and for the rain and for the way almonds came into blossom around Sacramento, room for irrigation ditches and room for the fear of kiln fires, room in which to play with everything I remembered and did not understand.

I heard the doctor say impressively: "Dan, how often have we told you that these foreigners cannot understand English? Why will you not depend upon us? Why will you not tell us what you want, and let us ask for it in the language of the country? It would save us a great deal of the humiliation your reprehensible ignorance causes us. I will address this person in his mother tongue: 'Here, cospetto! corpo di Bacco! Sacramento! Solferino!—Soap, you son of a gun!' Dan, if you would let us talk for you, you would never expose your ignorant vulgarity.

What happened in New York and Washington and abroad seemed to impinge not at all upon the Sacramento min. I remember being taken to call upon a very old woman, a rancher's widow, who was reminiscing (the favored conversational mode in Sacramento) about the son of some contemporaries of hers. 'That Johnston boy never did amount to much,' she said. Desultorily, my mother protested: Alva Johnston, she said, had won the Pulitzer Prize, when he was working for The New York Times. Our hostess looked at us impassively. 'He never amounted to anything in Sacramento,' she said.

W ogóle mamy tendencję, by wspominać spektakularne wydarzenia. Jak pan się zastanowi, zorientuje się pan, że życie to także drobiazgi i to głównie one dodają całości smaku. Nieważne, co pan ma na talerzu, mięso, ser czy rybę (...), główne danie samo w sobie nie ma smaku. Wie pan, co ma smak? Przyprawy.

An even more astonishing revelation occurred when Jandali was describing the previous restaurants that he had run. There had been some nice ones, he insisted, fancier than the Sacramento joint they were then sitting in. He told her, somewhat emotionally, that he wished she could have seen him when he was managing a Mediterranean restaurant north of San Jose. “That was a wonderful place,” he said. “All of the successful technology people used to come there. Even Steve Jobs.” Simpson was stunned. “Oh, yeah, he used to come in, and he was a sweet guy, and a big tipper,” her father added. Mona was able to refrain from blurting out, Steve Jobs is your son!

It’s too late now. The game’s been won by companies who don’t give two shits about community character or decent jobs. Congratufuckinglations, America! We did the deal. Now we’ve got an unlimited supply of cheap commodities and unhealthy food and crumbling downtowns, no sense of place, and a permanent under class. Yay. The underclass isn’t relegated to urban ghettos either. It’s coast to coast and especially in between. Take US 50 west from Kansas City to Sacramento or US 6 from Chicago to California and you’ll see a couple thousand miles of corn, soybeans, and terminally ill towns. It looks like a scene from The Walking Dead. If there’s such a thing as the American Heartland, it has a stake through it.

Twenty-six, and possibly twenty-eight, out of the forty-eight survivors, are living to-day. Noah James is believed to be alive, and John Baptiste was living only a short time since, at Ukiah, Mendocino County, California. Besides these two, there are twenty-six whose residences are known. William McCutchen, who came from Jackson County, Missouri, is hale and strong, and is a highly-respected resident of San Jose, California. Mr. McCutchen is a native of Nashville, Tennessee, was about thirty years old at the time of the disaster, and has a clear, correct recollection of all that transpired. Lewis Keseberg’s history has been pretty fully outlined in his statement. He resides in Brighton, Sacramento County, California.

If our democracy worked as it should, we would elect wise women and men who made laws for the good of the people and enforced those laws. That, though, is not the way things work. Greedy, power–mad billionaires spend money so that politicians such as George W. Bush can buy elections. Corrupt corporations such as Enron defraud old ladies and commit crimes. And they get away with it. They get away with it because most of us are so afraid of losing the security of our nice, normal lives that we are not willing to risk anything about those lives. We are either afraid to fight or we don’t know how. Or we believe that bad things won’t happen to us. And so, in the end, too many people lose their lives anyway. In Nazi Germany, millions of men who acquiesced to Hitler’s murderous rise to power wound up marching into Russia’s icy wasteland—into the Soviet Army’s machine guns and cannon—to themselves be murdered. In America after 9–11, trusting teenagers who had joined the National Guard found themselves sent to Iraq on extended and additional tours. Our enemy killed many of them because we, citizens of the richest country in the world, did not provide them with body armor. Grieving mothers protested the wasting of their sons’ lives. Nadia McCaffrey defied Bush’s shameful ban on the filming of U.S. soldiers’ coffins returning home from Iraq. She knew, as we all did, that this tyrannical dictum of Bush dishonored our soldiers’ sacrifice. And so she invited the press to the Sacramento International Airport to photograph her son’s flag–draped coffin. Again, I am not comparing George W. Bush to Adolph Hitler, nor America to Germany’s Third Reich. What I do believe is that each of us has the duty to keep the Bushes of the world from becoming anything like Hitler—and to keep America from invading other countries with no just cause. We will never, though, be able to stop corrupt politicians and corporations from doing criminal things until we stop surrendering our power to them. The more we fear to oppose them—the more we want to retreat into the supposed safety of our nice gated communities or downtown lofts—the more powerful people will conspire to ruin our prosperity and wreck our lives.

Well, it had been a good many years since I had thought myself very lovable, and I escaped to some degree this trap of shattered ego. I was lucky; I had found a village of people so poor and simple, so engaging, that I had been more interested in my feelings for them than in what they thought of me. And frankly, after eighteen years of farming in the Sacramento Valley, that terrible life-consuming rat race, I was desperate enough to accept almost any human relationship on almost any terms. Love is love, I decided. Just take it and don't analyze it away. "You're my friend; you're good; you give me pennies," some nameless kid from down the beach told me. My God, what is love in this whorehouse world of poverty? And was I shocked because I could buy love or because I could buy it with pennies?

Two o’clock in the morning. On the outskirts of Sacramento. An abandoned shopping mall. Reconstruction would eventually transform the site into upscale apartments with numerous amenities. A chain-link fence encircled the large property, emblazoned with red-lettered signs warning of hazards and against trespassing. Although nothing remained in the mall worth stealing, a guard was usually stationed in a car inside the only gate in the fence, less to deter thieves than to dissuade adventurous urban explorers—those self-described concrete spelunkers—who engaged in explorations of everything from abandoned hotels to the maze of service tunnels underlying major cities. Such exploring was illegal, but if some catacomber or amateur city archeologist were injured in one of their adventures, there was every reason to be concerned that a jury of the ignorant and a judge with issues would award millions to the trespasser. On

[...]a man and a boy, side by side on a yellow Swedish sofa from the 1950s that the man had bought because it somehow reminded him of a zoot suit, watching the A’s play Baltimore, Rich Harden on the mound working that devious ghost pitch, two pairs of stocking feet, size 11 and size 15, rising from the deck of the coffee table at either end like towers of the Bay Bridge, between the feet the remains in an open pizza box of a bad, cheap, and formerly enormous XL meat lover’s special, sausage, pepperoni, bacon, ground beef, and ham, all of it gone but crumbs and parentheses of crusts left by the boy, brackets for the blankness of his conversation and, for all the man knew, of his thoughts, Titus having said nothing to Archy since Gwen’s departure apart from monosyllables doled out in response to direct yes-or-nos, Do you like baseball? you like pizza? eat meat? pork?, the boy limiting himself whenever possible to a tight little nod, guarding himself at his end of the sofa as if riding on a crowded train with something breakable on his lap, nobody saying anything in the room, the city, or the world except Bill King and Ken Korach calling the plays, the game eventless and yet blessedly slow, player substitutions and deep pitch counts eating up swaths of time during which no one was required to say or to decide anything, to feel what might conceivably be felt, to dread what might be dreaded, the game standing tied at 1 and in theory capable of going on that way forever, or at least until there was not a live arm left in the bullpen, the third-string catcher sent in to pitch the thirty-second inning, batters catnapping slumped against one another on the bench, dead on their feet in the on-deck circle, the stands emptied and echoing, hot dog wrappers rolling like tumbleweeds past the diehards asleep in their seats, inning giving way to inning as the dawn sky glowed blue as the burner on a stove, and busloads of farmhands were brought in under emergency rules to fill out the weary roster, from Sacramento and Stockton and Norfolk, Virginia, entire villages in the Dominican ransacked for the flower of their youth who were loaded into the bellies of C-130s and flown to Oakland to feed the unassuageable appetite of this one game for batsmen and fielders and set-up men, threat after threat giving way to the third out, weak pop flies, called third strikes, inning after inning, week after week, beards growing long, Christmas coming, summer looping back around on itself, wars ending, babies graduating from college, and there’s ball four to load the bases for the 3,211th time, followed by a routine can of corn to left, the commissioner calling in varsity teams and the stars of girls’ softball squads and Little Leaguers, Archy and Titus sustained all that time in their equally infinite silence, nothing between them at all but three feet of sofa;

«Ah, gente pecadora, homens e mulheres que em danação temais viver essas vossas transitórias vidas, fornicando, comendo, bebendo mais que a conta, faltando aos sacramentos e ao dízimo, que do inferno ousais falar com descaro e sem pavor, vós homens, que podendo ser apalpais o rabo às mulheres na igreja, vós mulheres, que só por derradeira vergonha não apalpais na igreja as partes dos homens, olhai o que está passando, o pálio de oito varas, e eu, patriarca, debaixo dele, com a sagrada custódia na mão, ajoelhai, ajoelhai, pecadores, agora mesmo vos devíeis capar para não fornicardes mais, agora mesmo devíeis atar os queixos para não sujardes mais a vossa alma com a comilança e a bebedice, agora mesmo devíeis virar e despejar os vossos bolsos porque no paraíso não se requerem escudos, no inferno também não, no purgatório pagam-se as dívidas com rezas, aqui sim é que eles são precisos, para o ouro doutra custódia, para sustentar a prata de toda a gente (...)»

The bus trip from Denver to Frisco was uneventful except that my whole soul leaped to it the nearer we got to Frisco. Cheyenne again, in the afternoon this time, and then west over the range; crossing the Divide at midnight at Creston, arriving at Salt Lake City at dawn—a city of sprinklers, the least likely place for Dean to have been born; then out to Nevada in the hot sun, Reno by nightfall, its twinkling Chinese streets; then up the Sierra Nevada, pines, stars, mountain lodges signifying Frisco romances—a little girl in the back seat, crying to her mother, “Mama when do we get home to Truckee?” And Truckee itself, homey Truckee, and then down the hill to the flats of Sacramento. I suddenly realized I was in California. Warm, palmy air—air you can kiss—and palms. Along the storied Sacramento River on a superhighway; into the hills again; up, down; and suddenly the vast expanse of a bay (it was just before dawn) with the sleepy lights of Frisco festooned across.

I want her, bro. Not only for me, but because I think she has the best chance against these terrorists we're hunting." Tony placed a hand on his brother's shoulder. "She's a vampire, Deryn. And not just any vampire. Weldon Harper calls her Pack and she's a member of the Sacramento Pack, too. Now do you know who I'm talking about?" Deryn's eyes widened as he stared at his brother. Now he knew why they were out in the middle of the English countryside in the dark. They wouldn't find a vampire awake during the daytime and it would be dangerous to move one anyway, during that time. No wonder he'd seen a body bag in the trunk of the rental Tony was driving. "Bro, you can't be serious; we can't kidnap a vampire—they'd shred us. And if it's the one dad was telling mom and me about, she'd really shred us." Deryn figured he would have to convince Tony to forget this mission. "All we need to do is find where she is, just before dawn. Then, when she falls asleep, we'll just take her with us. I don't think she'll hurt us, she's not that way," Tony said, climbing inside the car.

Stately and commanding, the house I found on Sacramento Street, in Lower Pacific Heights, was an architectural jewel; tour buses drove down the street several times a day and the guides pointed out our Victorian “painted lady” not just for its curb appeal but also for its lucky survival of the earthquake. Meticulously renovated, the house had a layout that I was sure would work perfectly: a three-room suite on the lower level with a bathroom and laundry room for my mother, living space on the next level, and, on the top floor, bedrooms for Zoë and me. The master bedroom was large enough to double as my office. Moreover, it seemed symbolic that we should find a three-story nineteenth-century Victorian, whose original intention was to house multiple generations. My mother couldn’t have been more pleased. She started calling our experiment “our year in Provence.” In the face of naysayers, I chose to embrace the reaction of a friend who was living in Beijing: “How Chinese of you!” she said upon hearing the news. When I told my mother, she was delighted. “What have the Chinese got on us?” she declared. And I agreed. The Chinese revere their elderly. If they could live happily with multiple generations under one roof, so could we.

Leonardo era un maestro de los gestos, pero también sabía hacerlos enigmáticos, de modo que el espectador participara en la obra. ¿Baja la mano como diciendo: «Lo sabía»? ¿Señala con el pulgar a Judas? Ahora detengámonos en Mateo. Con las palmas de las manos vueltas hacia arriba, ¿apunta a Jesús o a Judas? El espectador no tiene por qué avergonzarse por su confusión; a su manera, Mateo y Tadeo también lo están sobre lo que acaba de ocurrir, intentan aclararse y acuden a Simón el Zelote en busca de respuesta. Jesús tiende la mano derecha hacia un vaso de vidrio lleno una tercera parte de vino tinto. En un detalle deslumbrante, se le ve el meñique a través del vaso, más allá del cual hay un plato y un pedazo de pan. La mano izquierda de Jesús, con la palma hacia arriba, se alarga hacia otro pedazo de pan, al que contempla bajando la mirada. La perspectiva y la composición de la pintura, en especial vista desde la puerta que los monjes usaban para acceder al refectorio, guían la mirada del espectador en la misma dirección que los ojos de Jesús, descendiendo por su brazo izquierdo hasta el pedazo de pan. Ese gesto y esa mirada crean el segundo momento destacado en el relato pictórico: el de la institución de la eucaristía. En el Evangelio según san Mateo, esta ocurre en el momento posterior al anuncio de la traición: «Mientras estaban comiendo, tomó Jesús pan y lo bendijo, lo partió y, dándoselo a sus discípulos, dijo: “Tomad, comed, este es mi cuerpo”. Tomó luego una copa y, dadas las gracias, se la dio diciendo: “Bebed de ella todos, porque esta es mi sangre de la Alianza, que es derramada por muchos para perdón de los pecados”». Este pasaje del relato parte de Jesús para abarcar tanto la reacción a su revelación de que Judas lo traicionaría como la institución del santísimo sacramento.[11]

Comenzaron desde la envidia y soberbia de Lucifer y de su caída con la tercera parte de las estrellas, que cayeron con él en los abismos; caída que dejó vacas y vacías las sillas del cielo, que las perdieron los ángeles malos por su necia culpa. Declaráronle el medio que Dios tuvo para llenar estos asientos, criando al hombre, cuya alma es capaz de la gloria que los ángeles malos perdieron. Discurrieron por la verdad de la creación del hombre y del mundo, y por el misterio sagrado y amoroso de la Encarnación y, con razones sobre la razón misma, bosquejaron el profundísimo misterio de la Santísima Trinidad. Contaron cómo convino que la segunda persona de las tres, que es la del Hijo, se hiciese hombre para que, como hombre, Dios pagase por el hombre, y Dios pudiese pagar como Dios, cuya unión hipostática solo podía ser bastante para dejar a Dios satisfecho de la culpa infinita cometida, que Dios infinitamente se había de satisfacer, y el hombre, finito por sí, no podía, y Dios, en sí solo, era incapaz de padecer pero, juntos los dos, llegó el caudal a ser infinito y así lo fue la paga. Mostráronle la muerte de Cristo, los trabajos de su vida desde que se mostró en el pesebre hasta que se puso en la cruz. Exageráronle la fuerza y eficacia de los sacramentos y señalaron con el dedo la segunda tabla de nuestro naufragio, que es la penitencia, sin la cual no hay abrir la senda del cielo, que suele cerrar el pecado. Mostráronle asimismo a Jesucristo, Dios vivo, sentado a la diestra del Padre, estando tan vivo y entero como en el cielo, sacramentado en la tierra, cuya santísima presencia no la puede dividir ni apartar ausencia alguna, porque uno de los mayores atributos de Dios, que todos son iguales, es el de estar en todo lugar, por potencia, por esencia y por presencia. Aseguráronle infaliblemente la venida deste Señor a juzgar el mundo sobre las nubes del cielo y asimismo la estabilidad y firmeza de su Iglesia, contra quien pueden poco las puertas, o por mejor decir, las fuerzas del infierno. Trataron del poder del Sumo Pontífice, visorrey de Dios en la tierra y llavero del cielo.

The game had only two rules. The first was that every statement had to have at least two words in which the first letters were switched. “You’re not my little sister,” Shawn said. “You’re my sittle lister.” He pronounced the words lazily, blunting the t’s to d’s so that it sounded like “siddle lister.” The second rule was that every word that sounded like a number, or like it had a number in it, had to be changed so that the number was one higher. The word “to” for example, because it sounds like the number “two,” would become “three.” “Siddle Lister,” Shawn might say, “we should pay a-eleven-tion. There’s a checkpoint ahead and I can’t a-five-d a ticket. Time three put on your seatbelt.” When we tired of this, we’d turn on the CB and listen to the lonely banter of truckers stretched out across the interstate. “Look out for a green four-wheeler,” a gruff voice said, when we were somewhere between Sacramento and Portland. “Been picnicking in my blind spot for a half hour.” A four-wheeler, Shawn explained, is what big rigs call cars and pickups. Another voice came over the CB to complain about a red Ferrari that was weaving through traffic at 120 miles per hour. “Bastard damned near hit a little blue Chevy,” the deep voice bellowed through the static. “Shit, there’s kids in that Chevy. Anybody up ahead wanna cool this hothead down?” The voice gave its location. Shawn checked the mile marker. We were ahead. “I’m a white Pete pulling a fridge,” he said. There was silence while everybody checked their mirrors for a Peterbilt with a reefer. Then a third voice, gruffer than the first, answered: “I’m the blue KW hauling a dry box.” “I see you,” Shawn said, and for my benefit pointed to a navy-colored Kenworth a few cars ahead. When the Ferrari appeared, multiplied in our many mirrors, Shawn shifted into high gear, revving the engine and pulling beside the Kenworth so that the two fifty-foot trailers were running side by side, blocking both lanes. The Ferrari honked, weaved back and forth, braked, honked again. “How long should we keep him back there?” the husky voice said, with a deep laugh. “Until he calms down,” Shawn answered. Five miles later, they let him pass. The trip lasted about a week, then we told Tony to find us a load to Idaho. “Well, Siddle Lister,” Shawn said when we pulled into the junkyard, “back three work.” — THE WORM CREEK OPERA HOUSE announced a new play: Carousel. Shawn drove me to the audition, then surprised me by auditioning himself. Charles was also there, talking to a girl named

Agents from Sacramento traveled fifteen hundred miles to arrest the goat-gland king. To the governor of Kansas, Jonathan M. Davis, they presented their warrant for extradition. Davis handed it back and told them to go home. Asked why he refused to surrender Brinkley, the governor was disarmingly frank. “We people in Kansas get fat on his medicine,” he said. “We’re going to keep him here so long as he lives.

From Gary Snyder: I heard a Crow elder say: “You know, I think if people stay somewhere long enough-even white people- the spirits will begin to speak to them. It’s the power of the spirits coming up from the land.” Bioregional awareness teaches us in specific ways. It is not enough just to “love nature” or want to be “in harmony with Gaia.” Our relation to the natural world takes place in a place, and it must be grounded in information and experience. This is so unexceptional a kind of knowledge that everyone in Europe, Asia and Africa used to take for granted… Knowing a bit about the flora we could enjoy questions like: where do Alaska and Mexico meet? It would be somewhere on the north coast of California, where Canada Jay and Sitka Spruce lace together with manzanita and Blue Oak. But instead of northern California, let’s call it “Shasta Bioregion.” The present state of California (the old Alta California territory) falls into at least three natural divisions, and the northern third looks, as the Douglas Fir example, well to the north. East of the watershed divide to the west near Sacramento, is the Great Basin, north of Shasta is the Cascadia/Colombia region, and then farther north is what we call Ish River country, the drainages of Puget Sound. Why should we do this kind of visualization? It prepares us to begin to be at home in this landscape. There are tens of millions of people in North America who were physically born here but who are not actually living here intellectually, imaginatively, or morally. Native Americans to be sure have a prior claim to the term native. But as they love this land, they will welcome the conversion of the millions of immigrant psyches into “native americans.” For the non-Native Americans to become at home on this continent, he or she must be born again in this hemisphere, on this continent, properly called Turtle Island.

Alguien, él o yo, es igual, hizo la pregunta idiota pero indispensable: ¿usted trabaja o estudia? Armonía del interés y de las buenas intenciones, manifestación de propósitos «serios». Hace un año yo no tenía la menor idea de su existencia y ahora reposo junto a él con los muslos entrelazados, húmedos de sudor y de semen. Podría levantarme sin despertarlo, ir descalza hasta la regadera. ¿Purificarme? No tengo asco. Prefiero creer que lo que me une a él es algo tan fácil de borrar como una secreción y no tan terrible como un sacramento.

L’amore può essere anche uno scontro nel quale due esseri umani prendono coscienza che dovrebbero appartenersi, malgrado la mancanza di stati d’animo, e di sensazioni comuni

Viva mi alma sólo para amarte; que se abrase de amor al solo recuerdo de tu amor. Y al oír nombrar el pesebre, la cruz, el sacramento, arda toda en deseos de hacer grandes cosas por ti, Jesús mío, que tanto has hecho y padecido por mí.

Air Conditioning Repair Sacramento| HVAC | Heating and Cooling “It may not take too long for split air conditioners to cool the room, but a dirty air filter or a blocked condensate drain may be the reason, even if it is left on for hours if there is no proper cooling. The AC is shielded by air filters from dust in the air. It may be simple to clean an air filter in a window AC, but you will need assistance from a split AC professional. Air filters accumulate dust and debris drawn into the ducts, and they remain clogged and impact the cooling process if they are not cleaned regularly. We recommend having the air conditioner serviced twice a year for increased performance and to avoid any problems during summers.Ice formation around the coils or a dirty outdoor compressor for which a professional would need assistance may be another possible reason for the lack of cooling. If the air conditioner does not cool properly, the coolant will be low as well. This either means that it has been undercharged, or that there is a gas leak in the split air conditioner. This is a more common problem for people living around coastal regions or anywhere close to waste water, where air pollution is high.Another potential explanation for the lack of cooling could be ice formation around the coils or a dirty outdoor compressor for which a specialist may need assistance. The coolant will also be poor if the air conditioner does not cool correctly. This either suggests that it has been undercharged, or that the split air conditioner has a gas leak. For people living around coastal regions or anywhere close to waste water, where air pollution is high, this is a more common concern.You can, however, avoid costly AC repairs with regular maintenance and keep your AC running at optimum performance. It is a warning of a burned cable, a faulty starting capacitor or a defective compressor itself when the compressor stops working. In this case, you will need to clean the condenser coil, inspect the capacitor and repair the compressor if it is found to be faulty. When the air conditioner starts to turn on and off, before you get it serviced, it is better to turn it off. Most possibly, the evaporator is dirty and the condenser is dirty or blocked.A dirty filter restricts airflow and reduced airflow creates further problems, like a frozen evaporator coil. Before and after summer, in particular, it is important to adjust the air filter for better cooling and overall performance. To see if the timer function has been turned on and altered accordingly, double check your thermostat settings. ac companies near me heating and cooling near me #acpowerSacramento#AcpowerSacramento#airconditioning#hvac #hvaclife #ac #airconditioner #heating #hvacservice #cooling #hvactechnician #hvactech #heatingandcooling #hvacrepair #refrigeration #plumbing #hvacr #hvacinstall #maintenance #furnace #hvaccontractor #aircon #service #acrepair #hvacquality #hvactools #airconditioningrepair #hvaclove#ACRepairNearBy #ACTechnician #HVAC #Heating&Cooling #FurnanceRepai

No a todos les es dado, dice santa Teresa, hablar con el rey: lo más a que pueden aspirar algunos es a hacerlo por tercera persona. Pero para hablarte a ti, Rey de los Cielos, no hacen falta intermediarios, pues estás siempre dispuesto a dar audiencia a todos en el Santísimo Sacramento del altar. Ahí te halla todo el que quiere y te habla con la mayor llaneza.

Este nuestro amoroso Pastor, que por nosotros sus ovejas dio la vida, no quiso ni aun al morir separarse de nosotros. Véanme aquí, ovejuelas mías; véanme aquí siempre con ustedes. Por ustedes me quedé en este sacramento y aquí me hallarán siempre que quieran para ayudarlas y consolarlas con mi presencia. No las dejaré hasta el fin de los tiempos, mientras en la tierra vivan.

No quiero que pienses más en esto, porque cuando un alma se ha humillado, convencida de haber hecho mal y ha lavado su alma en el sacramento de la confesión y está dispuesta a morir antes que ofenderme, el pensar en ello es una afrenta a mi Misericordia, es un impedimento para estrecharla a mi Amor, porque siempre busca con su mente envolverse en el fango pasado y me impide hacerle tomar el vuelo hacia el Cielo, porque siempre con aquellas ideas se encierra en sí misma, si es que busca pensar en ellas. Y además, mira, Yo no recuerdo ya nada, lo he olvidado perfectamente; ¿ves tú alguna sombra de rencor de parte mía?

Matthew Sengsack, a former Marine and Green Beret, combines his military experience with his passion for teaching.

Some twenty-three hundred miles away Major General H.H. “Hap” Arnold, head of the Army Air Corps, had traveled to Hamilton Field near Sacramento to personally see off a flight of thirteen B-l 7s destined for MacArthur in the Philippines by way of Hawaii. The first leg to Hickam Field took fourteen hours, so the big bombers flew with only four-man crews and were unarmed. One of the pilots objected. At least they ought to carry their bomb sights and machine guns. Arnold said they could be put aboard but without ammunition to save weight. So the bombers could home in on its signal, Major General Frederick L. Martin, head of the Hawaiian Air Force, had his staff ask station WGMB in Honolulu to stay on all night. Sure thing, general. Another night of ukuleles and Glenn Miller drifting out across the Pacific courtesy of the U.S. Army Air Corps. When Lieutenant Colonel George W. Bicknell of Army intelligence heard about it, he blew up. Why tip our hands whenever we have planes coming in? Why not keep WGMB on the air every night? One of those who caught the station was Lieutenant Kermit Tyler on his way to work the graveyard shift at the radar coordinating station at Fort Shafter. Must be planes coming in from the States, he told himself.

Las ropas de piel dadas por Dios son un “manto de misericordia”, un sacramento de bondad. Aun despojado de la gloria, Adán marcha envuelto en la gracia. Esta vestidura le dará el consuelo y la fortaleza que necesita en el dolor y la fatiga mientras espera la redención. El manto protege la existencia presente de Adán, preservando su naturaleza icónica en un contexto foráneo. La promesa de la liberación iluminará el exilio de la humanidad.

En el análisis de Ruck de los Evangelios, las epístolas de Pablo, así como otros documentos en griego de la época, las primeras generaciones de cristianos heredaron de los griegos un sacramento que alteraba la mente

El Concilio de Trento (1545–1563) representa un hito fundamental de esta reflexión interna de la Iglesia católica, puesto que se revisó buena parte de la doctrina tradicional, se reafirmó la práctica del celibato de los sacerdotes y se confirmó toda la doctrina de los sacramentos. La acción de Trento tuvo un influjo perdurable ya que no volvió a organizarse ningún concilio ecuménico hasta más de tres siglos después, con el Concilio Vaticano I (1870).

The men at the Division Headquarters of Taggart Transcontinental avoided looking at one another, when the break of the telephone line was discovered and reported. They made statements painfully miscalculated to seem to refer to the problem, yet to state nothing, none fooling the others. They knew that copper wire was a vanishing commodity, more precious than gold or honor; they knew that the division storekeeper had sold their stock of wire weeks ago, to unknown dealers who came by night and were not businessmen in the daytime, but only men who had friends in Sacramento and in Washington—just as the storekeeper, recently appointed to the division, had a friend in New York, named Cuffy Meigs, about whom one asked no questions. They knew that the man who would now assume the responsibility of ordering repairs and initiating the action which would lead to the discovery that the repairs could not be made, would incur retaliation from unknown enemies, that his fellow workers would become mysteriously silent and would not testify to help him, that he would prove nothing, and if he attempted to do his job, it would not be his any longer. They did not know what was safe or dangerous these days, when the guilty were not punished, but the accusers were; and, like animals, they knew that immobility was the only protection when in doubt and in danger. They remained immobile; they spoke about the appropriate procedure of sending reports to the appropriate authorities on the appropriate dates.

El Concilio Vaticano II dijo que el Magisterio no es superior a la Palabra de Dios, sino que está bajo la Palabra de Dios y le sirve a Él. Así como el Papa, nadie en la Iglesia tiene la autoridad para relativizar los Mandamientos de Dios. (...) Si les preguntas cuál es la Verdad, repetirán la doctrina de la Iglesia, pero luego harán sus excepciones y en otros casos no hay excepciones. No podemos relativizar la Palabra de Dios con la llamada ética de la situación. La situación pertenece a nuestra condición subjetiva, pero no a las condiciones objetivas de los sacramentos.

El estoicismo, religión que no posee más que un sacramento: ¡el suicidio! Concebir una trama para una bufonada lírica o mágica, para una pantomima, y traducirla en una novela seria. Ahogar el todo en una atmósfera anormal y sonámbula

When Brad and I had moved to Sacramento for his job, I had resigned myself to caring for my mom in her declining years. She had moved to Sacramento from my smaller hometown, not far away, after I graduated from high school. I never intended to end up back in Sacramento Valley, but that's where my husband found a tenure-track position. When we relocated, I quit my job as associate food editor at a Bay Area-based magazine, and I was worried I wouldn't be able to find writing work in the smaller Sacramento area.

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El amor, repite san Juan en más de una ocasión, es lo único que cumple todos los mandamientos y la ley. Pero antes que el amor, apuntalándolo desde dentro, está la fe: antes de poder amar, hemos de tener fe; si no, acabaremos amando mal, amándonos a nosotros mismos más que a Dios o amando a las criaturas por sí mismas: eso es lo que significa el pecado. Para crecer en nuestro amor, para amar correctamente, debemos luchar siempre por aumentar nuestra fe, y lo hacemos a través de la oración y los sacramentos.

Pero ¿de qué pan se alimenta la fe de María y de José, cuál es el sacramento de todos sus momentos sagrados? ¿Qué se descubre bajo la apariencia común de los acontecimientos que los llenan? Lo que allí sucede es visible, es lo que ordinariamente vemos en todos los hombres; pero lo invisible que la fe allí descubre y reconoce es nada menos que el mismo Dios realizando obras grandes. Dios se revela a los pequeños en las cosas más pequeñas; y los grandes, que solo miran la apariencia, no le reconocen, no lo descubren ni aun en las grandes.

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The true account of what happened next has never been made public before. The official story the police released was that the Cal-ID, a new twenty-five-million-dollar Japanese computer the California Department of Justice had just bought, broke the case. Actually, the fingerprint Orange County found on the mirror in the orange Toyota was flown up to Sacramento, and with the computer’s help, all the Ramirezes on file were searched. They found the name of a Richard Munoz Ramirez—a tall, gangly El Paso drifter, thief, and sometime drug dealer with a record for small crimes, petty thefts, and stealing a car—which apparently was the December 1984 arrest Perez had told them about and the LAPD had never been able to find.

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El matrimonio es un sacramento. Ningún matrimonio está libre de discusiones, pero lo importante es abstenerse de palabras que ofendan. Como cualquier pareja casada, Marko y yo teníamos de vez en cuando pequeñas y estúpidas peleas, pero estábamos determinados a evitar las palabras hirientes en nuestra relación. Respetábamos las diferencias de cada uno y poníamos a Dios en primer lugar. Nuestra fe nos ayudaba a pasar por alto los desafíos humanos que a menudo suceden entre las personas. Dios es amor. Y el amor debe hacerte feliz.

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Creo que en la comunidad arqueológica hemos pasado por alto desde hace un tiempo que el vino es una bebida perfecta (cuando se le añaden los ingredientes correctos) para tener una experiencia religiosa profunda, con un efecto psicotrópico. Así que prefiero llamar «poción» a esa clase de vino, porque no solo es una bebida, sino un sacramento.

cuatro siglos antes, había llamado un sacramento para el «pueblo simple» o phauloteron (φαυλότερον): «Igual al rico y al más pobre les ha ofrecido disfrutar del goce del vino que aleja el pesar».

Todo comenzó con la última cena, un asunto un poco más íntimo entre amigos. Cuando el vino se convirtió en sangre y Jesús introdujo la segunda parte del clásico sacramento dionisiaco: la carne viva.

Pero sin el sacramento psicodélico genuino heredado de los griegos, ¿cómo podía una eucaristía de solo alcohol convencer a alguien de dejar el paganismo y la religión arraigada de sus ancestros?

Pero si vamos más a fondo, el problema permanece: ¿de dónde provino el soma? ¿Por qué el sacramento original de la civilización occidental lograría viajar hasta los Himalayas, pero de algún modo se perdió en camino a Eleusis?

Antes del auge del cristianismo, ¿los antiguos griegos consumían un sacramento psicodélico secreto

¿Los antiguos griegos pasaron una versión de su sacramento a los primeros cristianos de habla griega, para quienes la sagrada comunión original o eucaristía era, de hecho, una eucaristía psicodélica?

Todo su Evangelio parece diseñado para dejar clara una sola cosa: que el sacramento de Dioniso y el sacramento de Jesús son el mismo.

We’d been shot out of Sutter’s cannon. Ever since the poor captain weighed the nuggets discovered by Marshall and found out they were twenty-three-carat gold, we’ve been stuck in the same gear. Because our beginning was supercharged, we never had a chance to catch our breath and correct our excess. The fever never left our System. It followed us down the mountain to the valley. It became our System. We built a state capitol where two rowdy rivers met. We spent a century trying to conquer the Sacramento River. When we finished conquering it (or not), we killed the San Joaquin. Of all the crimes of the System, this is the one that cannot be forgiven. The farms of Tulare and Kern Counties had rivers of their own to exploit well enough. That they aspired beyond those rivers should not have been a price the San Joaquin had to pay.

Hay en la Iglesia un grupo de seguidores llamados, enviados y consagrados por el Señor y su Espíritu para reproducir de manera intensiva y pública, sellada por el sacramento del orden, los rasgos de Cristo pastor. Somos signo sacramental de Cristo pastor. Nuestra vocación consiste en hacer presente, patente y operante en la comunidad de Jesús y en el mundo a Cristo pastor. Él, a través de nosotros, ofrece la palabra de Dios, se hace presente y activo en los sacramentos y guía a su comunidad aglutinándola, dirigiéndola y dinamizándola. Nuestra misión consiste, por tanto, en poner a disposición de Cristo nuestra persona, nuestro corazón, nuestras cualidades, nuestra preparación, nuestro tiempo, nuestra oración, para que Jesucristo pueda ejercer en la historia, a través de nuestra vida y ministerio, como pastor de su comunidad.

I'd run back in to grab it, and I may have left the door ajar. That didn't sound like me, especially after I'd read about the Vampire of Sacramento and how he'd never hit up a house with a locked door, feeling it was a sign he was unwelcome.

Alysia Montano ran the 800 meters Thursday in Sacramento to show women they can juggle a career and family.