Vortex Best Quotes

When you discover the best version of yourself then you can be a living magnet to gravitate your ideal partner to your vortex because you always attract for who you are being as per the law of attraction.

The best way to explain in modern terms what a deity is, is to understand deity as a unique vortex of energy. Sometimes that energy vortex takes recognizable anthropomorphic form (for instance, in meditation visions). Sometimes that energy is felt through the sound vibrations, called mantra, or through the geometric pictures, called yantras, that map the way that energy looks in “blueprint” form.

He had found the compass for his future life. And like all gifted abominations, for whom some external event makes straight the way down into the chaotic vortex of their souls, Grenouille never again departed from what he believed was the direction fate had pointed him…A murder had been the start of this splendor-if he was at all aware of the fact, it was a matter of total indifference to him. Already he could no longer recall how the girl from the rue des Marias had looked, not her face, not her body. He had preserved the best part of her and made it his own: the principle of her scent.

I brushed my teeth like a crazed lunatic as I examined myself in the mirror. Why couldn’t I look the women in commercials who wake up in a bed with ironed sheets and a dewy complexion with their hair perfectly tousled? I wasn’t fit for human eyes, let alone the piercing eyes of the sexy, magnetic Marlboro Man, who by now was walking up the stairs to my bedroom. I could hear the clomping of his boots. The boots were in my bedroom by now, and so was the gravelly voice attached to them. “Hey,” I heard him say. I patted an ice-cold washcloth on my face and said ten Hail Marys, incredulous that I would yet again find myself trapped in the prison of a bathroom with Marlboro Man, my cowboy love, on the other side of the door. What in the world was he doing there? Didn’t he have some cows to wrangle? Some fence to fix? It was broad daylight; didn’t he have a ranch to run? I needed to speak to him about his work ethic. “Oh, hello,” I responded through the door, ransacking the hamper in my bathroom for something, anything better than the sacrilege that adorned my body. Didn’t I have any respect for myself? I heard Marlboro Man laugh quietly. “What’re you doing in there?” I found my favorite pair of faded, soft jeans. “Hiding,” I replied, stepping into them and buttoning the waist. “Well, c’mere,” he said softly. My jeans were damp from sitting in the hamper next to a wet washcloth for two days, and the best top I could find was a cardinal and gold FIGHT ON! T-shirt from my ‘SC days. It wasn’t dingy, and it didn’t smell. That was the best I could do at the time. Oh, how far I’d fallen from the black heels and glitz of Los Angeles. Accepting defeat, I shrugged and swung open the door. He was standing there, smiling. His impish grin jumped out and grabbed me, as it always did. “Well, good morning!” he said, wrapping his arms around my waist. His lips settled on my neck. I was glad I’d spritzed myself with Giorgio. “Good morning,” I whispered back, a slight edge to my voice. Equal parts embarrassed at my puffy eyes and at the fact that I’d slept so late that day, I kept hugging him tightly, hoping against hope he’d never let go and never back up enough to get a good, long look at me. Maybe if we just stood there for fifty years or so, wrinkles would eventually shield my puffiness. “So,” Marlboro Man said. “What have you been doing all day?” I hesitated for a moment, then launched into a full-scale monologue. “Well, of course I had my usual twenty-mile run, then I went on a hike and then I read The Iliad. Twice. You don’t even want to know the rest. It’ll make you tired just hearing about it.” “Uh-huh,” he said, his blue-green eyes fixed on mine. I melted in his arms once again. It happened any time, every time, he held me. He kissed me, despite my gold FIGHT ON! T-shirt. My eyes were closed, and I was in a black hole, a vortex of romance, existing in something other than a human body. I floated on vapors. Marlboro Man whispered in my ear, “So…,” and his grip around my waist tightened. And then, in an instant, I plunged back to earth, back to my bedroom, and landed with a loud thud on the floor. “R-R-R-R-Ree?” A thundering voice entered the room. It was my brother Mike. And he was barreling toward Marlboro Man and me, his arms outstretched. “Hey!” Mike yelled. “W-w-w-what are you guys doin’?” And before either of us knew it, Mike’s arms were around us both, holding us in a great big bear hug. “Well, hi, Mike,” Marlboro Man said, clearly trying to reconcile the fact that my adult brother had his arms around him. It wasn’t awkward for me; it was just annoying. Mike had interrupted our moment. He was always doing that.

I saw the Tracker—but that’s wrong, really. I saw right to where the tracking thing was. I saw those winnowing tentacles come out again, and the front figure pause, and then—it’s the only word that actually describes it—ooze on again on its via dolorosa. And at that the hind figure seemed to summon all its strength. It seemed to open out a fringe of arms or tentacles, a sort of corona of black rays spread out. It gaped with a full expansion, and even I could feel that there was a perfectly horrible attraction, or vacuum drag, being exerted. That was horrible enough, with the face of the super-suffering man now almost under me resonating my own terror. But the worst thing was that, as the tentacles unwrapped and winnowed out toward their prey, I saw they weren’t really tentacles at all. They were spreading cracks, veins, fissures, rents of darkness expanding from a void, a gap of pure blackness. There’s only one way to say it—one was seeing right through the solid world into a gap, an ultimate maelstrom. And from it was spreading out a—I can only call it so—a negative sunrise of black radiation that would deluge and obliterate everything. Of course it was still only a fissure, a vent, but one realized—This is a hole, a widening hole, that has been pierced in the dike that defends the common-sense, sensuous world. Through this vortex-hole that is rapidly opening, over this lip and brink, everything could slip, fall in, find no purchase, be swallowed up. It was like watching a crumbling cliff with survivors clinging to it being undercut and toppling into a black tide that had swallowed up its base. This negative force could drag the solidest things from their base, melt them, engulf the whole hard, visible world. And we were right on that brink. What was after us, for I knew now I was in its field, was not a thing of any passions or desires. Those are limited things, satiable things—in a way, balanced things, and so familiar, safe even, almost friendly in comparison with this. You know the grim saying, “You can give a sop to Cerberus, but not to his Master.” No, this was—that’s the technical term, I found, coined by those who have been up against this and come back alive—this was absolute Deprivation, really insatiable need, need that nothing can satisfy, absolute refusal to give, to yield. It is the second strongest thing in the universe, and, indeed, outside that. It could swallow the whole universe, and the universe would go for nothing, because in that gap the whole universe could fill not a bit of it. It would remain as empty, as gaping, as insatiable as ever, for it is the bottomless pit made by unstanchable Lack.

Useful narrative writing calls for inspiration and imagination fueled by passion and tempered by compassion, a delicate tightrope for any paper tiger to walk. To venture into deep waters where a person never before journeyed is to tempt a dangerous liaison with fate. A cautionary edict proclaims that a wise person should stay out of such heady waters, an admonitory diktat that exempts only rare people blessed with the split-brain temperament of an alpha/omega ambivert. Writing is an activity best suited for a freewheeling optimist who exhibits genuine enthusiasm for life’s rollercoaster ride immured shoulder to shoulder with a pensive recluse as a platonic traveling companion to eyewitness, record, and shed enlightenment upon a person’s journey through the vortex of infinite time and space.

God damn it, Peg! Now we’ve got us another vortex into a lost dimension, smack in the middle of town this time!” said the mayor in exasperation. “What are we going to do?” “Beats

may not sound like the most compassionate philosophy in the world, but let me tell you, there’s nothing compassionate about letting yourself get sucked into a vortex of negativity. The best thing I can do to serve the world around me is to keep myself in a state where I can best contribute—and I can’t do that if I’m being dragged down by an environment of cynicism and self-pitying complaint. I want to spend my time with people who have an infectiously positive attitude, who bring energy and vitality to the table, and who brighten the room. There may be some people with whom you’re now spending two days a week where you might decide you need to take that down to two hours. There may also be people with whom you’re spending only two minutes, where you’ll realize you need to spend far more time with them—two hours or two days. And you will find times when what you really need to do is simply disassociate yourself from someone. That’s a part of the Law of Association, too.

In all 279 episodes of Big Bang, one that consistently pops up on everyone’s best-of list, including the actors, happened early on in season seven. It was “The Scavenger Vortex,” which saw the characters pair off to find a gold coin that Raj had hid. At the time the episode aired, Oliver Sava wrote in the A.V. Club (October 3, 2013): “Over the past seven seasons, The Big Bang Theory has grown to become a nerdy West Coast version of Friends, so it’s no surprise that this week’s competition-centric ‘The Scavenger Vortex’ is reminiscent of Friends’ classic ‘The One with the Embryos.’ Both episodes spotlight the series’ tight ensemble casts by putting the characters in increasingly tense circumstances, and while Big Bang’s paired scavenger [hunt] doesn’t have the high stakes of Friends’ apartment game show, the mismatched couples bring focus to some of the less defined relationships on the show.

Today, no matter where I’m going, no matter what I’m doing, no matter who I’m doing it with, it is my dominant intent to look for and find things that feel good when I see them, when I hear them, when I smell them, when I taste them, when I touch them. It is my dominant intent to solicit, experience, and exaggerate and talk about and revel in, the best of what I see around me here and now.

Been incarcerated in the halls of education. Okay, just channel the weirdest, the most eccentric parts of myself, the ones the universe needs now. My very best—including all of my eccentricities to set sail straight into the wonderful wide unknown. I just want more. “Lulu Wu, would you care to answer this question?

A Typical Description of an NDE (Near Death Experience) I asked Ring to describe for me a typical NDE. He told me: The first thing is a tremendous feeling of peace, like nothing else you have experienced. Most people say like never before and never again. People say [that it is] the peace that passes all understanding. Then there is the sense of bodily separation and sometimes the sense of actually being out of the body. There are studies that show that people can sometimes report veridically what is in their physical environment, e.g., the lint on the light fixtures above themselves. They could see in a three-hundred-sixty-degree panoramic vision. They had extraordinary acuity. Often when they went further into the experience, they went to a dark place that is sometimes described as a tunnel, but not always. They usually feel that there is a sense of motion; that they are moving through something that is vast almost beyond imagination. And yet they feel they don't have the freedom to go anywhere. They feel as if they were being propelled. The extreme sense of motion often seems to be one of acceleration. Some describe that they have felt as if they were moving a the speed of light or faster. One NDEr described this as superluminal-moving beyond the speed of light with tremendous accelerated motion through a kind of cylindrical vortex, and then, in the distance, the person describes a dot of light that suddenly grows larger, more brilliant, and all encompassing. Ring continued: At this stage of the experience there is an encounter with light. It seems to be a living light exuding pure love, complete acceptance, and total understanding. The individual feels that he is made of that light, that he has always been there, and that he has stepped out of time and stepped into eternity. This feeling is accompanied by a sense of absolute perfection. Being out of time introduces another aspect of the experience: a sense of destiny. Ring explained: Then there is a panoramic light review in which you see everything that has ever happened to you in your life. Not [only] just what you have done but the effects of your actions on others, the effects of your thoughts on others. The whole thing is laid out for you without being judged but with a complete understanding of why things were the way they were in your life. The best metaphor I can suggest for this is: as if you were the character in someone else's novel. There would be one moment outside of time where you would have the perspective of the author of that novel, and you have a sense of omniscience about that character. Why he did the things that he did, why he had affected others, and so on. It is a profound moment outside of time when this realization occurs. You see the whole raison d'etre of your life. You may also see scenes or fragments of scenes of your life if you choose to go back to your body. In other words, it is not only that you have flashbacks but you also seem to have flash-forwards of events that will occur almost at though there is a kind of blueprint for your life. And it is up to you at that moment. You have free choice because it is often left to you whether to go back to your life or to leave it behind. The people we talk with of course always make the choice to go back or sometimes are sent back.

When his association with L’Indice ended in December 1931—the paper apparently ‘went bust’—he intensified his effort to play an active part in the literary and cultural life of Italy by getting a local vortex going in Rapallo. With Gino Saviotti and half a dozen other collaborators, notably Basil Bunting, Pound organised a ‘Supplemento Letterario’ which appeared every other week as an insert in Rapallo’s weekly paper, Il Mare. For eight months, from August 1932 to March 1933, it was a two-page supplement, and then, from April to July 1933, was reduced to a single ‘Pagina Letteraria’. The promise that it would reappear in October 1933, after taking a summer holiday, ‘with, as always, the collaboration of the best Italian and foreign writers’, was not kept. In its first phase the ‘Supplemento’ was determinedly international, with contributions from and about Italian, French, Spanish, German, and American writers and writing, and could claim to be giving a local focus to the most innovative and avant-garde work of its time. Pound contributed occasional ‘Appunti’, and recycled his Little Review ‘Study of French Poets’ and his notes on Vorticism. In one of his ‘Appunti’ he asserted that Futurism, the best of which satisfied the demands of Vorticism, had to be the dominant art of ‘l’Italia Nuova’.

Jessica Kim was one of them. A damn shame, she was one of those Asian worker-bee types. Always here past midnight. I heard she worked on Christmas. A real numbers whiz." "True, but she wasn't the best fit for client services. At her level, she needed to be a thinker, not a doer. I know this sounds crass, but her clothes never fit. They were a little too baggy for may taste." "Maybe you should have paid her more so she could hire a tailor." Laughter. "Wasn't she already being overpaid anyway, especially for a female associate?" My stomach lurched. I'd heard enough. My sadness vortexed into pure rage as I stomped over to them. "I gave blood, sweat, and tears for this company." I growled and pointed at Robert, my former group director. "You begged me to cover for you if your wife called when you were wining and dining that female client last year." Robert's face reddened. "But you didn't. I'm going through a divorce now." I went down the line to the next asshole. "Shaun, you tried to expense your escapade at a strip club by saying it was my birthday dinner and HR thought I was in on the scam. And Dan, you transposed all those numbers on the deal sheet and I caught them just before they were sent out, remember? You could have been fired for that, especially for showing up to work high. I went above and beyond for you. I saved your ass." Their jaws dropped. No, they weren't going to schmooze their way out of this one. "I know what you're thinking. How dare she say these things to us? She's just bitter because she was let go. Well, it's partly true. I'm bitter because I've wasted seven years of my life at this company that turned around and stabbed me in the back. If I wasn't leadership material, why didn't a female mentor coach me? Oh right, because there aren't any female execs here. But thank you, sincerely, for the wake-up-call. Now I can take my bonuses and severance and do something better with my time rather than covering for you and making you all richer.

The philosopher of tragic knowledge. He masters the frenzied instinct for knowledge but not through a new metaphysics he establishes no new belief he feels tratically that the grounding of metaphysics has been taken away from him and yet cannot be satisfied by the gaudy vortex of sciences. He works at building a new life: he restores its right to art. ... The tragic Philosopher sees a complete image of existence emerge, in which everything that fills under the province of metaphysics seems merely anthropomorphic. He is not sceptical. He must create here a concept: for scepticism is not the goal. When the instinct for knowledge reaches its limit, it turns back on itself and becomes a critique of knowledge. This is knowledge at the service of the best kind of life. We must even want illusion―that is what the tragic is.