Thursdays Child Quotes

People don't care how smart woman is as long as she's charming and gay and pretty.

The stage floor was a stage of thin ice for me to tread. To hold my own or to sink through and die, never to be remembered.

Monday's child is fair of face, Tuesday's child is full of grace, Wednesday's child is full of woe, Thursday's child has far to go, Friday's child is loving and giving, Saturday's child works hard for a living, But the child who is born on the Sabbath Day, Is bonny and blithe and good and gay.

Thursday is perhaps the worst day of the week. It's nothing in itself; it just reminds you that the week has been going on too long.

And finally it is Thursday and the day of my guitar lesson. I jump out of bed as though it’s Christmas morning and I am six years old and a child of the Brangelina. I am in front of the mirror fixing my make up when Brodie waltzes in and plonks herself on my bed. ‘Why do you look pretty?’ she asks.

God loves old dogs.

It must be this overarching commitment to what is really an abstraction, to one's children right or wrong, that can be even more fierce than the commitment to them as explicit, difficult people, and that can consequently keep you devoted to them when as individuals they disappoint. On my part it was this broad covenant with children-in-theory that I may have failed to make and to which I was unable to resort when Kevin finally tested my maternal ties to a perfect mathematical limit on Thursday. I didn't vote for parties, but for candidates. My opinions were as ecumenical as my larder, then still chock full of salsa verde from Mexico City, anchovies from Barcelona, lime leaves from Bangkok. I had no problem with abortion but abhorred capital punishment, which I suppose meant that I embraced the sanctity of life only in grown-ups. My environmental habits were capricious; I'd place a brick in our toilet tank, but after submitting to dozens of spit-in-the-air showers with derisory European water pressure, I would bask under a deluge of scalding water for half an hour. My closet wafter with Indian saris, Ghanaian wraparounds, and Vietnamese au dais. My vocabulary was peppered with imports -- gemutlich, scusa, hugge, mzungu. I so mixed and matched the planet that you sometimes worried I had no commitments to anything or anywhere, though you were wrong; my commitments were simply far-flung and obscenely specific. By the same token, I could not love a child; I would have to love this one. I was connected to the world by a multitude of threads, you by a few sturdy guide ropes. It was the same with patriotism: You loved the idea of the United States so much more powerfully than the country itself, and it was thanks to your embrace of the American aspiration that you could overlook the fact that your fellow Yankee parents were lining up overnight outside FAO Schwartz with thermoses of chowder to buy a limited release of Nintendo. In the particular dwells the tawdry. In the conceptual dwells the grand, the transcendent, the everlasting. Earthly countries and single malignant little boys can go to hell; the idea of countries and the idea of sons triumph for eternity. Although neither of us ever went to church, I came to conclude that you were a naturally religious person.

Is this a holy thing to see, In a rich and fruitful land, Babes reduced to misery, Feed with cold and usurous hand? Is that trembling cry a song? Can it be a song of joy? And so many children poor? It is a land of poverty! And their sun does never shine, And their fields are bleak & bare, And their ways are fill'd with thorns; It is eternal winter there. For where-e'er the sun does shine, And where-e'er the rain does fall, Babe can never hunger there, Nor poverty the mind appall.

As he said the name, he displayed a smile that made Elizabeth catch her breath. It produced the most irresistible dimples she had ever seen.

you’re one of those friends I can be silent with.

You never step into the same river twice,

I agree. However, this one appears to belong to a rare species known as the barrier pigeon.

Sensei, wherever I sit is the head of the table.

If they went down right now, the nearest ship is four days steaming away, and that's not good.

There was no escape from it once we got sucked in. We tried all sorts of maneuvering but still it shot us in a southerly direction and we couldn't get out of it.

We needed a bit of luck.

Thursday’s child has far to go.

The situation is that the higher you go, the more fuel is used. So usually you trade speed for fuel. We are not that concerned at the moment, but we are just driving it very hard. It is a very dangerous place and we are not taking any chances.

My sexual exploits with my neighborhood playmates continued. I lived a busy homosexual childhood, somehow managing to avoid venereal disease through all my toddler years. By first grade I was sexually active with many friends. In fact, a small group of us regularly met in the grammar school lavatory to perform fellatio on one another. A typical week’s schedule would be Aaron and Michael on Monday during lunch; Michael and Johnny on Tuesday after school; Fred and Timmy at noon Wednesday; Aaron and Timmy after school on Thursday. None of us ever got caught, but we never worried about it anyway. We all understood that what we were doing was not to be discussed freely with adults but we viewed it as a fun sort of confidential activity. None of us had any guilty feelings about it; we figured everyone did it. Why shouldn’t they?

He expected her to feel what she did not know how to feel. There were things that existed for him that she could not penetrate. With his close friends, she often felt vaguely lost. They were youngish and well-dressed and righteous, their sentences filled with “sort of,” and “the ways in which”; they gathered at a bar every Thursday, and sometimes one of them had a dinner party, where Ifemelu mostly listened, saying little, looking at them in wonder: were they serious, these people who were so enraged about imported vegetables that ripened in trucks? They wanted to stop child labor in Africa. They would not buy clothes made by underpaid workers in Asia. They looked at the world with an impractical, luminous earnestness that moved her, but never convinced her. Surrounded by them, Blaine hummed with references unfamiliar to her, and he would seem far away, as though he belonged to them, and when he finally looked at her, his eyes warm and loving, she felt something like relief.

Although Mollie’s disappearance created a stir in the Digbys’ neighborhood, it did not immediately warrant unusual notice in New Orleans as a whole. Hundreds of children went missing in the city every year. Most were later found and returned to their parents. In a metropolis plagued by crime and violence, moreover, Mollie’s disappearance was just one of many unsavory events that day. On that same Thursday, a boy stabbed his friend in the head in a dispute over a ball game. A jewel thief robbed a posh Garden District home. Two toughs fought a gory knife battle on St. Claude Avenue. A drowned child was found floating in the Mississippi River. A prostitute in the Tremé neighborhood stole $30 from a customer. Someone poisoned two family dogs. And two women in a saloon bloodied one another with broken ale bottles as they fought over a lover. Because crime was so common, most incidents received little attention. If a crime occurred in a poor district, on the docks, or in one of the infamous concert saloons, or if its victim was an immigrant or black person, it seldom warranted more than a sentence or two in the “City Intelligence” columns of the dailies. 5

Why one Thursday's child doesn't look at the other? Cause it was already a Friday.

About 1 a.m. on Thursday morning this child, Joshua Aaron Banks, was taken from his bed by person or persons unknown.

Even though my mother has often spoken of a marriage between us, I have always believed that it would never occur.

Does the gentleman suffer an impediment, a defect of speech perhaps, that prohibits him from speaking to me himself?

I believe in such cases, a good memory is unpardonable, Mr. Darcy. It is to my benefit that you do not possess one, sir.

A voice from the opposite end of the table brought all eyes to Lady Catherine. “Miss Bennet, my granddaughter seems much attached to you. How do you account for this?

Tell me you love me, Lizzy,” he whispered. “I love you, William, so very much.

THURSDAY, DECEMBER 24 Thursday of the Fourth Week of Advent No Place Like Home Like most Americans, I have wandered far from my family of origin. I miss my mother and my brother and my two sisters—and especially my little nieces and nephew!—most at Christmas. And so, a journey is planned. We will pack everyone in the car and drive to my mother’s home in Pennsylvania. For a short time the whole family will be together, and there will be joy. But after that, I know, I will come back to New York, and the sadness will return. I ask Christ to help me bear this. In the crèche we see him born among us, but in the manner of a refugee or exile. Everything around him speaks of being displaced: the smell of the manure, the rough feel of hay on skin, the cold air that comes in through a hole where there is no door. He knows our loneliness. But if we look again, we see he is at his Mother’s breast. Like every child, he could be anywhere, as long as he is with her. She is his all. He is her all. And Joseph is close by. And now the shepherds are crowding in, with their sheep. And now the angels are hovering, suffusing the space with golden light. This is the tender compassion of our God! Is it not amazing that we wanderers have found a home here, among the cows and the pigs, the grubby shepherds and the perfect angels—our very own home in the bosom of the Church?   Reflection based on Luke 1:67-79

Electric

Let me stay over,” he said. “No. I have things to get ready for tomorrow. I teach a couple of classes on Monday and Thursday mornings and keep office hours for students in the afternoons. Then I work my twenty-four-hour shifts in Redding on Tuesday and Friday mornings. Tomorrow starts a real busy week and I—” “Okay,” he said. “I’ll watch TV while you get your stuff together.” “No. You’ll seduce me and I have a child in the house.” “Gee, how do you suppose all the families with more than one child managed to do that?” “Those first children were used to their mothers and fathers sleeping in the same bed, but Rosie’s not. Sometimes she crawls in with me in the night.” “I have sweatpants in my duffel. I’ll sleep in those,” he tried. “No.” “Can I have the couch?” “No. Because I know you and you’ll seduce me. I think the only thing more important to you than sex is air. Now be on your good behavior. She isn’t even asleep yet.” “We

Time passes slowly when you're young, and quickens as you get old.

We want to fly over the top of this depression before it deepens and sucks us in.

We were beset with all sorts of problems that were all political. But in the end it was the weather that brought us down. It's a very, very difficult thing to circumnavigate the globe. Otherwise someone else would have done it by now.

We just got word that Virgin Airlines (which Branson owns) was awarded a commercial route into Shanghai. So the balloon must be doing some good.

The biggest difference between a young child acquiring a first language and an older child acquiring a second language is that the first child doesn’t have another language to compete with.” ========== Popular Science (Webtoread.com) - Your Highlight on Location 98-99 | Added on Thursday, August 28, 2014 10:07:16 AM

House Minority Leader Nancy Pelosi of San Francisco pushed back forcefully Thursday against efforts by Republicans and some in her own party to rewrite a 2008 child-trafficking law at the center of an escalating partisan fight in Congress over how to deal with Central American children and families flooding across the U.S. border. The key provisions of the law were written by two Bay Area Democrats, Sen. Dianne Feinstein and Rep. Zoe Lofgren of San Jose. But they were also embraced by Republicans and signed by former President George W. Bush when the numbers fleeing Honduras, Guatemala and El Salvador were a tenth of the estimated 57,000 children who have been caught entering the U.S. since October.

Η Πέμπτη είναι ίσως η χειρότερη ημέρα της εβδομάδας. Δεν είναι απολύτως τίποτε από μόνη της. Απλώς βρίσκεται εκεί για να σου υπενθυμίζει πόσο ατελείωτη είναι η εβδομάδα σου.

Νομίζω πως μερικές φορές η ζωή μπορεί να μας φαίνεται σαν ένας δρόμος χωρίς στροφές, που απλώνεται μπροστά μας χωρίς να βλέπουμε την προοπτική καμίας αλλαγής. [...] Κι εμείς απλώς σερνόμαστε κατά μήκος του.

So Stephen’s pain is over. He is no longer trapped in the static of his mind. Tormented by stabs of clarity, like a drowning man surfacing above the waves before being engulfed again. There will be no further decline. From here on the decline will be all hers. The pain all hers. She is glad of it, deserves to endure it. It feels like penance. Penance for helping to kill Stephen? Is that right? No. Elizabeth doesn’t feel guilt at the act. She knows in her heart that it was an act of love. Joyce will know it was an act of love. Why does she worry what Joyce will think? It is penance for everything else she has done in her life. Everything that she did in her long career, without question. Everything she signed off, everything she nodded through. She is paying a tax on her sins. Stephen was sent to her, and then taken away, as a punishment. She will speak to Viktor about it; he will feel the same. However noble the causes of her career were, they weren’t noble enough to excuse the disregard for life. Day after day, mission after mission, ridding the world of evil? Waiting for the last devil to die? What a joke. New devils will always spring up, like daffodils in springtime. So what was it all for? All that blood? Stephen was too good for her tainted soul, and the world knew it, so the world took him away. But Stephen had known her, hadn’t he? Had seen her for what she was and who she was? And Stephen had still chosen her? Stephen had made her, that was the truth. Had glued her together. And here she lies. Unmade. Unglued. How will life go on now? How is that possible? She hears a car on a distant road. Why on earth is anybody driving? Where is there to go now? Why is the clock in the hall still ticking? Doesn’t it know it stopped days ago? On the way to the funeral, Joyce had sat with her in the car. They didn’t speak because there was too much to say. Elizabeth looked out of the window of the car at one point, and saw a mother pick up a soft toy her child had dropped out of its pram. Elizabeth almost burst into laughter, that life was daring to continue. Didn’t they know? Hadn’t they heard? Everything has changed, everything. And yet nothing has changed. Nothing. The day carries on as it would. An old man at a traffic light takes off his hat as the hearse passes, but, other than that, the high street is the same. How can these two realities possibly coexist? Perhaps Stephen was right about time? Outside the car window, it moved forward, marching, marching, never missing a step. But inside the car, time was already moving backward, already folding in. The life she had with Stephen will always mean more to her than the life she will now have going forward. She will spend more time there, in that past, she knows that. And, as the world races forward, she will fall further and further back. There comes a point when you look at your photograph albums more often than you watch the news. When you opt out of time, and let it carry on doing its thing while you get on with yours. You simply stop dancing to the beat of the drum. She sees it in Joyce. For all her bustle, for all her spark, there is a part of her, the most important part, locked away. There’s a part of Joyce that will always be in a tidy living room, Gerry with his feet up, and a young Joanna, face beaming as she opens presents. Living in the past. Elizabeth had never understood it, but, with intense clarity, she understands it now. Elizabeth’s past was always too dark, too unhappy. Family, school, the dangerous, compromising work, the divorces. But, as of three days ago, Stephen is her past, and that is where she will choose to live.

What had Chris Hurley dreamt of being? What had Cameron Doomadgee? When Hurley was doing rugby training at a Christian Brothers school, Doomadgee was in a youth detention centre. By the time Hurley was setting up a sports club for kids on Thursday Island, Cameron had a child and a broken relationship. As Hurley picked his way along the police career path, the other man was like his shadow. The date of their meeting was gaining on him. Hurley had success in his name, Cameron had doom in his. But the bitter joke of reconciliation in Australia was that the lives of these two men were supposed to be weighed equally.

Thursday, January 12, 2006 It’s been a long day. I’m in a hospital lobby, waiting for a friend whose loved one is hovering between life and death. Sitting here is giving me some time to reflect on some of the things I’ve learned today, and they aren’t pretty. What I want to do is speak to every parent with an adolescent or pre-adolescent child and say to those parents: WAKE UP!!! If your child has a computer, check it out. Find out what chat rooms he or she visits, and find out what’s going on there. Find out who’s on your child’s buddy list. Who sends e-mails to your child’s address and what do those e-mails say? And what does your child say back? Does this sound like an invasion of your precious offspring’s privacy? You bet it is. It’s also called parenting. The same rules apply to your child’s cell phone. What comes and goes on your son or daughter’s text messages is private. It’s also possibly deadly. Today I’ve caught glimpses of some of the people out there, evil people—who are trolling the cyber-ether for innocent children to victimize—your children. And yes, you should be very afraid for your children. And if looking over your son or daughter’s shoulder when they’re online annoys them? Fine. You can tell them from me that being a parent is a dirty job, but somebody has to do it. Babe, posted 6: 07 P.M. January 12, 2006

So, if there's any advice I can give a parent who has lost a child, it is this: Grieve like hell. It's necessary. But do not get stuck in the depths of it for too long, because it can fester. It can take you down. Find something meaningful to do. Search for peace wherever you can, and fight to live the life you were given ~ no matter its challenges.

Monday’s child is fair of face Tuesday’s child is full of grace Wednesday’s child is full of woe Thursday’s child has far to go Friday’s child is loving and giving Saturday’s child works hard for his living … And the child that is born on the Sabbath day Is bonny and blithe, and good and gay.

Why don't one Thursday's child look at the other? Cause it was already a Friday.

My wife is nearly nine months pregnant with our child. If she wants to wander IKEA on a Thursday night looking at sofa beds and closet organizers, I will hold her coffee.

The form it took was a childish and yet hateful fancy. As he walked across the inner room towards the balcony, the large face of Sunday grew larger and larger; and Syme was gripped with a fear that when he was quite close the face would be too big to be possible, and that he would scream aloud. He remembered that as a child he would not look at the mask of Memnon in the British Museum, because it was a face, and so large. By an effort, braver than that of leaping over a cliff, he went to an empty seat at the breakfast-table and sat down. The men greeted him with good-humoured raillery as if they had always known him. He sobered himself a little by looking at their conventional coats and solid, shining coffee-pot; then he looked again at Sunday. His face was very large, but it was still possible to humanity

My heart lurched and cleanly broke.

I'm a bit like a stone - content to stay wherever it is put.

One is never simply the child of a father and a mother. I was born in 1929 just after Black Thursday, under the sign of Leo and the Crisis. These mythical powers never leave you. They manifest themselves in a certain mode of thought, a mode which smacks of the desert but is nonetheless vital, analytical and solitary - Solar Criticism. Born at the time of the first great crisis of modernity, I hope to live long enough to witness its catastrophic turn at the end of the century (if there is a logic of birth and death, as I believe). I have a friend born of the flight from Paris in 1939. That exodus had rekindled his father's extinguished passions. He is thus the product of an unexpected copulation with History. The glorious anticipation of summer by springtime gives you the urge to anticipate everything in thought. But it is the anticipation which is the thought itself. It can thus come to us from natural phenomena, from sun and shade.

We rolled on. The dirty red truck sat up big and obvious, three hundred yards ahead. It bore left around the southern fringe of Atlanta. Setting itself to strike out west, across the country. The distribution theory was looking good. I slowed down and hung back through the interchange. Didn’t want the driver to get suspicious about being followed. But I could see by the way he was handling his lane changes this was not a guy who made much use of his rearview mirrors. I closed up a little tighter. The red truck rolled on. I stayed eight cars behind it. Time rolled by. It got late in the afternoon. It got to be early evening. I ate candy and sipped water for dinner as I drove. I couldn’t work the radio. It was some kind of a fancy Japanese make. The guy at the auto shop must have transplanted it. Maybe it was busted. I wondered how he was doing with tinting the Bentley’s windows. I wondered what Charlie was going to say about getting her car back with black glass. I figured maybe that was going to be the least of her worries. We rolled on. We rolled on for almost four hundred miles. Eight hours. We drove out of Georgia, right through Alabama, into the northeast corner of Mississippi. It got pitch dark. The fall sun had dropped away up ahead. People had switched their lights on. We drove on through the dark for hours. It felt like I had been following the guy all my life. Then, approaching midnight, the red truck slowed down. A half-mile ahead, I saw it pull off into a truck stop in the middle of nowhere. Near a place called Myrtle. Maybe sixty miles short of the Tennessee state line. Maybe seventy miles shy of Memphis. I followed the truck into the lot. Parked up well away from it. I saw the driver get out. A tall, thickset type of a guy. Thick neck and wide, powerful shoulders. Dark, in his thirties. Long arms, like an ape. I knew who he was. He was Kliner’s son. A stone-cold psychopath. I watched him. He did some stretching and yawning in the dark standing by his truck. I stared at him and pictured him Thursday night, at the warehouse gate, dancing. THE KLINER KID LOCKED UP THE TRUCK AND AMBLED OFF

Anne Kihagi Explores San Francisco’s Best Cultural Attractions The city of San Francisco offers many museums and enriching cultural attractions. Here, Anne Kihagi explores three of the city’s best ones to visit shared in 3 part series. California Academy of Sciences The California Academy of Sciences houses several attractions under one roof sure to interest visitors of all ages. Offering an aquarium, a natural history museum, and a planetarium, the academy also boasts a 2.5-acre living roof. The venue is also home to various educational and research programs. The academy’s featured exhibits include the Steinhart Aquarium, which has 40,000 species, and the Osher Rainforest, which is a four-level exhibit with butterflies and birds. The academy has several long-standing exhibits like the Philippine Coral Reef, the Human Odyssey, the Tusher African Hall, and the California Coast. There are three exhibits for the academy’s youngest visitors to enjoy. The Naturalist Center features live species and educational games and films, while the Curiosity Grove is a California forest-themed play area. Finally, the Discovery Tidepool allows children to interact with California tidepool species.The academy also offers sleepovers for their youngest visitors. Children will be able to view the exhibits after-hours and enjoy milk and cookies before bed. They can choose to sleep in areas such as the flooded forest tunnel or the Philippine Coral Reef. The academy’s newest exhibits include the planetarium show Passport to the Universe, 400 gemstones and minerals in the geology collection, and the Giants of Land and Sea that showcases the northern part of the state’s natural wonders. You can visit the academy Monday through Saturday from 9:30 AM – 5:00 PM and on Sundays from 11:00 AM – 5:00 PM. Visitors who are 21 and older can attend the academy’s NightLife on Thursdays from 6:00 – 10:00 PM. General adult admission is $35.95 and senior citizen admission (65+ with ID) is $30.95. Child admission (ages 4-11) is $25.95, while youth admission (ages 12-17) is $30.95. Children under three receive free admission.

Bottomless I took a deep breath. Olivia would be back. I suddenly felt so much better. I had plenty to do to keep myself busy while I waited. A shower was first on the agenda. I sniffed my shoulders as I undressed, but I couldn't smell anything but the brine and seaweed scent of the ocean. I wondered what Olivia had meant about me smelling bad. When I was cleaned up, I went back to the kitchen. I couldn't see any signs that Mr. Anderson’s child was eaten recently, and he would be hungry when he got back. I hummed tunelessly to myself as I moved around the kitchen. While Thursday's casserole rotated in the microwave, I made up the couch with sheets and an old pillow. Olivia wouldn't need it, but Mr. Anderson would need to see it. I was careful not to watch the clock. There was no reason to start myself panicking; Olivia had promised. I hurried through my dinner, not tasting it-just feeling the ache as it slid down my raw throat. Mostly I was thirsty; I must have drunk a half-gallon of water by the time I was finished. All the salt in my system had dehydrated me. I went to go try to watch TV while I waited. Olivia was already there, sitting on her improvised bed. Her eyes were liquid butterscotch. She smiled and patted the pillow. ‘Thanks.’ ‘You're early,’ I said, elated. I sat down next to her and leaned my head on her shoulder. She put her cold arms around me and sighed. ‘Bell. What are we going to do with you?’ ‘I don't know,’ I admitted. ‘I have been trying my hardest.’ ‘I believe you.’ It was silent. ‘Does-does he…’ I took a deep breath. It was harder to say his name out loud, even though I was able to think about it now. ‘Does Marcel know you're here?’ I couldn't help asking. It was my pain. I'd deal with it when she was gone, I promised myself, and felt sick at the thought. ‘No…’ There was only one way that could be true. ‘He's not with Chiaz and Esme?’ ‘He checks in every few months.’ ‘Oh.’ He must still be out enjoying his distractions. I focused my curiosity on a safer topic. ‘You said you flew here… Where did you come from?’ ‘I was in Denali. Visiting Tanya's family.’ ‘Is he here? Did he come with you?’ She shook her head. ‘He didn't approve of my interfering. We promised…’ she trailed off, and then her tone changed. ‘And you think Mr. Anderson won't mind my being here?’ she asked, sounding worried.

and we will have such a splendid row on grandfather’s big pond. How nice it will be!” Annie kissed the child, who was her favourite among them all, for he seemed to love her best, and had called her “sister Annie” from the first; but still she said firmly, “We will have a beautiful row when spring comes, Willie; but on Thursday I had much rather stay at home with Rhoda!

Hours, packaged as “Bowie’s R&B album,” went equally deep. “Seven,” “Survive,” and “Thursday’s Child” felt like Babyface and Toni Braxton doing Young Americans. The major flaw of these records, one that many listeners understandably found (and still find) impossible to get past, was the butt-ugly guitar sound of Tin Machine leftover Reeves Gabrels, which was even more irritating than the techno effects. It would have been great to hear Bowie redo these songs with a better band and better production. I played them a lot anyway.

That was one reason why she got up in the middle of the night. The streets and lights and noises and smells of the city, the cold air of the very early morning, they were a way of controlling her thinking, of calming it, damping it down.

Sir, what you suggest is quite out of the question. Were you the last man in the world, I would never agree to be your mistress. I must insist that you leave at once.