She scissored the curls away, and - toms, grow easily sentimental over their haircuts, but I remember this sensation very vividly - it was not like she was cutting hair, it was as if I had a pair of wings beneath my shoulder-blades, that the flesh had all grown over, and she was slicing free...
Have you never seen a movie? Read a comic book? That's always how it starts - just a little temptation, just a little taste of evil, and then BAM, your light saber turns red and you're breathing through a big black mask and slicing off your son's hand just to be mean." They looked at him blankly.
Then, I feel it; it was a hot that was like a burning sword, fine, slicing my skin in pieces, and not even my jacket could protect me from the hot. Then it goes, as unexpected like it came, lifting dirt from the floor and a smell I remember, metal, and the only thing it could be: blood.
I had Eondel teach me," Raoden said. "Back when I was trying to find ways to prove that my father's laws were foolish. Eondel chose fencing becausehe thought it would be most useful to me, as a politician. I never figured I'd end up using it to keep my wife from slicing me to pieces.
In a branch of medicine rife with paradoxes, contradictions, inconsistencies, and illogic, episiotomy crowns them all. The major argument for episiotomy is that it protects the perineum from injury, a protection accomplished by slicing through perineal skin, connective, tissue, and muscle.
I don't just want to be someone who hits the ball 100 per cent every time. You can play with freedom and still mix up the pace, mix up the spins and everything like that. That's what I want to be doing, because you get into that very one-dimensional kind of tennis if you don't work on slicing and coming into the net.
Do you want to know the closest thing to feeling the most powerful you can feel ? Flying alone at night.Risky.Nothing but you and the wind soaring way above everything , Slicing through the air like a Sword. Up and up until you feel like you can grab a star and hold it to your chest like a burning, Spiky thing
Small Moth... She's slicing ripe white peaches into the Tony the Tiger bowl and dropping slivers for the dog poised vibrating by her foot to stop their fall when she spots it, camouflaged, a glimmer and then full on- happiness, plashing blunt soft wings inside her as if it wants to escape again.
Maybe nothingness is to be without your presence, without you moving, slicing the noon like a blue flower, without you walking later through the fog and the cobbles, without the light you carry in your hand, golden, which maybe others will not see, which maybe no one knew was growing like the red beginnings of a rose. In short, without your presence: without your coming suddenly, incitingly, to know my life, gust of a rosebush, wheat of wind: since then I am because you are, since then you are, I am, we are, and through love I will be, you will be, we will be.
Once upon a time Apache land would have stretched farther than the horizon, through New Mexico almost to Texas, but as white men found gold, silver, turquoise, and copper beneath its surface they carved up the territory like children sneaking to the fridge and slicing off a chocolate cake bit by bit: hoping at first that the loss wouldn't be noticed but ultimately not really caring.
The reason for not going out and sinning all you like is the same as the reason for not going out and putting your nose in a slicing machine: its dumb, stupid, and no fun. Some individual sins may have pleasure still attached to them because of the residual goodness of the realities they are abusing: adultery can indeed be pleasant and tying one on can amuse. But betrayal, jealousy, love grown cold, and the gray dawn of the morning after are nobody's idea of a good time.
Robert Farrar Capon
Hope is a merciless tormentor. It's the sound of trickling water to parched lips. The prospect of love to the unlovable. A miracle cure to the parents of a dying child. It holds up victory over the inevitable and beckons us to crawl further over slicing shards, all the while pulling back, remaining just out of reach. It makes agony out of mere pain by pretending a different outcome could have been. It laughs at mankind's embrace of it after millennia of disappointment.
JUGGALO'S PARADISE I'M SWEATING AGAIN, I ALWAYS DO, I SHOULD PROBABLY TAKE ANOTHER PILL OR TWO IN THE MIRROR, I SEE THE FACE OF FRANKENSTIEN, AND THAT FACE IS MINE I GO TO WORK AT SUBWAY, SLICING HAM CUT MY FINGER OFF AGAIN I WALK HOME, TRYIN TO DODGE AND HIDE FROM THUGS, THEY LIKE TO BEAT ON SCRUBS I GO THROUGH THIS ALL THE TIME THOUGH, I CALL, "J, WHERE THE FUCK YOU AT?" "THE MALL," "DID YOU GET YOUR ASS STOMPED AGAIN?" "NO!....YES..HA HA....SO? NOBODY SEES WHAT I SEE, DO THEY? THEY JUST CAST ME ASIDE, PUT ME AWAY NO FRIENDS, NO STYLE, NO PLACE TO GO, TIL I WENT JUGGALO!
Insane Clown Posse
It is a nostalgic time right now, and photographs actively promote nostalgia. Photography is an elegiac art, a twilight art. Most subjects photographed are, just by virtue of being photographed, touched with pathos. ... All photographs are memento mori. To take photograph is to participate in another person's mortality, vulnerability, mutability. Precisely by slicing out this moment and freezing it, all photographs testify to time's relentless melt
Staring at her face, she began to fancy her outer layer had begun to melt away while she wasn't paying attention, and something -- some new skeleton -- was emerging from beneath the softness of her accustomed self. With a deep, visceral ache, she wished her true form might prove to be a sleek and shining one, like a stiletto blade slicing free of an ungainly sheath. Like a bird of prey losing its hatchling fluff to hunt in cold, magnificent skies. That she might become something glittering, something startling, something dangerous.
If it were possible for a metaphysician to be a golfer, he might perhaps occasionally notice that his ball, instead of moving forward in a vertical plane (like the generality of projectiles, such as brickbats and cricket balls), skewed away gradually to the right. If he did notice it, his methods would naturally lead him to content himself with his caddies's remark-'ye heeled that yin, ' or 'Ye jist sliced it.'... But a scientific man is not to be put off with such flimsy verbiage as that. He must know more. What is 'Heeling', what is 'slicing', and why would either operation (if it could be thoroughly carried out) send a ball as if to cover point, thence to long slip, and finally behind back-stop? These, as Falstaff said, are 'questions to be asked.
Peter Guthrie Tait
Pain! Deep, tearing, throbbing, needle-sharp, hammer-blunt pain "" ripping through his body and through his mind, twisting deep in his guts and slicing at his skin with razors and broken glass. Oskan wanted to scream, but his vocal cords had burned away. He was desperate for water and he could hear it dripping all around him, but his charred tongue found nothing in his mouth but blisters and scorched flesh. For hours he lay on the ropes of the low bed, unable to move, the pressure of the hemp on his destroyed skin sending new agonies deep into his body.
Louise was an urbanite, she preferred the gut-thrilling sound of an emergency siren slicing through the night to the noise of country birds at dawn. Pub brawls, rackety roadworks, mugged tourists, the badlands on a Saturday night - they all made sense, they were all part of the huge, dirty, torn social fabric. There was a war raging out there in the city and she was part of the fight, but the countryside unsettled her because she didn't know who the enemy was. She had always preferred North and South to Wuthering Heights. All that demented running around the moors, identifying yourself with the scenery, not a good role model for a woman.
What kind of knife is this?' Locke held a rounded buttering utensil up for Chains' inspection. 'It's all wrong. You couldn't kill anyone with this.' 'Well, not very easily, I'll grant you that, my boy.' Chains guided Locke in the placement of the butter knife and assorted small dishes and bowls. 'But when the quality get together to dine, it's impolite to knock anybody off with anything but poison. That thing is for scooping butter, not slicing windpipes.' 'This is a lot of trouble to go to just to eat.' 'Well, in Shades' Hill you may be able to eat cold bacon and dirt pies off one another's asses for all your old master cares. But now you're a Gentleman Bastard, emphasis on the Gentleman. You're going to learn how to eat like this, and how to serve people who eat like this.
No matter who you were in sixteenth-century Europe, you could be sure of two things: you would be lucky to reach fifty years of age, and you could expect a life of discomfort and pain. Old age tires the body by thirty-five, Erasmus lamented, but half the population did not live beyond the age of twenty. There were doctors and there was medicine, but there does not seem to have been a great deal of healing. Anyone who could afford to seek a doctor's aid did so eagerly, but the doctor was as likely to maim or kill as to cure. His potions were usually noxious and sometimes fatal-but they could not have been as terrible and traumatic as the contemporary surgical methods. The surgeon and the Inquisitor differed only in their motivation: otherwise, their batteries of knives, saws, and tongs for slicing, piercing, burning, and amputating were barely distinguishable. Without any anesthetic other than strong liquor, an operation was as bad as the torments of hell.
We'll have to see, " Belbo said. He rummaged in his drawer and took out some sheets of paper. "Potio-section... " He looked at me, saw my bewilderment. "Potio-section, as everybody knows, of course, is the art of slicing soup. No, no, " he said to Diotallevi. "It's not the department, it's a subject, like Mechanical Avunculogratulation or Pylocatabasis. They all under the same heading of Tetrapyloctomy." "What's tetra... ?" I asked. "The art of splitting hairs four ways. This is the department of useless techniques. Mechanical Avunculogratulation, for example, is how to build machines for greeting uncles. We're not sure, though, if Pylocatabasis belongs, since it's the art of being saved by a hair. Somehow that doesn't seem completely useless." "All right, gentlemen, " I said, "I give up. What are you two talking about?" "Well, Diotallevi and I are planning a reform in higher education. A School of Comparative Irrelevance, where useless or impossible courses are given. The school's main is to turn out scholars capable of endlessly increasing the number of unnecessary subjects.
Already, Cullum felt a stirring of interest. The name Horace and the mention of an oakleaf symbol struck a chord in his memory. Sir Horace, the Oakleaf Knight, was a legendary figure in Araluen, even in a place as remote as Norgate. Of course, the more remote the location, the more garbled and fantastic the legends became. As Cullum had hear tell, Sir Horace had been a youth of sixteen when he defeated the tyrant Morgarath in single combat, slicing the head off the evil lord's shoulders with one might strocke of a massive broadsword. Then, in the company of the equally legendary Ranger Halt, Sir Horace had traveled across the Stormwhite Sea to defeat the Riders from the East and rescue Princess Cassandra and her companion, the apprentice Ranger known as Will. Will! The significance of the name suddenly registered with the innkeeper. The jongleur's name was Will. Now here he was, in a cowled cloak, festooned with recurve bow and a quiver of arrows. He looked more closely and saw the hilt of a heavy saxe knife just visible at his waist. No doubt about it, Cullum thought, these cheerful young men were two of Araluen's greatest heroes!
Digging Between my finger and my thumb The squat pen rests; snug as a gun. Under my window, a clean rasping sound When the spade sinks into gravelly ground: My father, digging. I look down Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds Bends low, comes up twenty years away Stooping in rhythm through potato drills Where he was digging. The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft Against the inside knee was levered firmly. He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep To scatter new potatoes that we picked, Loving their cool hardness in our hands. By God, the old man could handle a spade. Just like his old man. My grandfather cut more turf in a day Than any other man on Toner's bog. Once I carried him milk in a bottle Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up To drink it, then fell to right away Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods Over his shoulder, going down and down For the good turf. Digging. The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge Through living roots awaken in my head. But I've no spade to follow men like them. Between my finger and my thumb The squat pen rests. I'll dig with it.
Killing, raping and looting have been common practices in religious societies, and often carried out with clerical sanction. The catalogue of notorious barbarities - wars and massacres, acts of terrorism, the Inquisition, the Crusades, the chopping off of thieves' hands, the slicing off of clitorises and labia majora, the use of gang rape as punishment, and manifold other savageries committed in the name of one faith or another - attests to religion's longstanding propensity to induce barbarity, or at the very least to give it free rein. The Bible and the Quran have served to justify these atrocities and more, with women and gay people suffering disproportionately. There is a reason the Middle Ages in Europe were long referred to as the Dark Ages; the millennium of theocratic rule that ended only with the Renaissance (that is, with Europe's turn away from God toward humankind) was a violent time. Morality arises out of our innate desire for safety, stability and order, without which no society can function; basic moral precepts (that murder and theft are wrong, for example) antedated religion. Those who abstain from crime solely because they fear divine wrath, and not because they recognize the difference between right and wrong, are not to be lauded, much less trusted. Just which practices are moral at a given time must be a matter of rational debate. The 'master-slave' ethos - obligatory obeisance to a deity - pervading the revealed religions is inimical to such debate. We need to chart our moral course as equals, or there can be no justice.
WE SMELLED THE GREASEPAINT IN THE AIR, THEY STUMBLED INTO TOWN LAST NIGHT, COMPLETELY UNAWARE, CLAD IN SHIRTS OF MESH AND WITH MASCARA ON THEIR EYES WE SAW A KEYBOARD PLAYER AND WE KNEW THEY HAD TO DIE. THEY PLAYED A SHOW AT IVAN'S INN, FROM UNDERNEATH THE STAGE WE HEARD THE CATERWAULING DIN, THEY SANG OF FORESTS, ELVES, AND TROLLS, THE URGE TO KILL THEM ON THE SPOT WE BARELY COULD CONTROL AFTER THE SHOW THEY ALL GOT DRUNK, APPARENTLY TO CELEBRATE A SET THAT REALLY STUNK, TO THE GRAVEYARD THEY PREDICTABLY PAID CALL, THESE LORDS OF CHAOS WHINED ABOUT THEIR TOUR BUS BEING SMALL THEY SPOKE OF NORWAY AND 'THE SCENE' THE SOUND OF LAUGHING GHOULS REVERBERATED THROUGH THE TREES 'WE SHOULD TAKE SOME PICTURES!' THE ONE IN CHAIN MAIL SAID, 'THAT'S IT.' CREMATOR GROWLED, 'IT'S TIME THESE IDIOTS WERE DEAD.' THEY SCATTERED LIKE RATS WHEN THEY SAW GHOUL ATTACK, THE DRUMMER WAS THE FIRST TO GO, A HOOK IN HIS BACK MACHETES WERE SINKING INTO PAINTED FLESH CARNAGE AND GORE SOAKING LEATHER AND MESH THE KEYBOARDIST BEGGED BUT FERMENTOR JUST LAUGHED WE HACKED OFF HIS HANDS AND THEN CHOPPED HIM IN HALF THE VOCALIST WAS STRANGLED WITH HIS VERY GUTS HIS FEMALE BACK-UP EXPIRED FROM HER CUTS SPLATTERING BRAIN PANS AS A MATTER OF COURSE VIOLENTLY MURDERING WITH NO FUCKING REMORSE THEIR BASSIST, TO A BOOBYTRAP, PAID A TOLL HIS HEAD HAVING GAINED FIVE OR SIX EXTRA HOLES THE BLOOD FROM HIS MOUTH MADE A HOT, STEAMY TREAT WE SAVOURED THE MOMENT, THEN SAWED OFF HIS FEET BOTH OF THE GUITARISTS MADE A RUN FOR THE GATE DIGESTOR CUT THEM OFF AND SEALED THEIR FATE ONE OF THEM CRIED WHILE THE OTHER WAS KILLED, HIS TEARS DID NO GOOD AS HIS SKULL WAS STILL DRILLED SLICING AND DICING, OUR FANATIC OBSESSION OF SLAUGHTERING POSEURS, WE'VE MADE A PROFESSION IN OUR FORBIDDEN... FORBIDDEN CRYPTS!!!
The Chinese ideograph for forbearance is a heart with a sword dangling over it, another instance of language's brilliant way of showing us something surprising and important fossilized inside the meaning of a word. Vulnerability is built into our hearts, which can be sliced open at any moment by some sudden shift in the arrangements, some pain, some horror, some hurt. We all know and instinctively fear this, so we protect our hearts by covering them against exposure. But this doesn't work. Covering the heart binds and suffocates it until, like a wound that has been kept dressed for too long, the heart starts to fester and becomes fetid. Eventually, without air, the heart is all but killed off, and there's no feeling, no experiencing at all. To practice forbearance is to appreciate and celebrate the heart's vulnerability, and to see that the slicing or piercing of the heart does not require defense; that the heart's vulnerability is a good thing, because wounds can make us more peaceful and more real-if, that is, we are willing to hang on to the leopard of our fear, the serpent of our grief, the boar of our shame without running away or being hurled off. Forbearance is simply holding on steadfastly with whatever it is that unexpectedly arises: not doing anything; not fixing anything (because doing and fixing can be a way to cover up the heart, to leap over the hurt and pain by occupying ourselves with schemes and plans to get rid of it.) Just holding on for hear life. Holding on with what comes is what makes life dear... Simply holding on this way may sound passive. Forbearance has a bad reputation in our culture, whose conventional wisdom tells us that we ought to solve problems, fix what's broken, grab what we want, speak out, shake things up, make things happen. And should none of this work out, then we are told we ought to move on, take a new tack, start something else. But this line of thinking only makes sense when we are attempting to gain external satisfaction. It doesn't take into account internal well-being; nor does it engage the deeper questions of who you really are and what makes you truly happy, questions that no one can ignore for long... Insofar as forbearance helps us to embrace transformative energy and allow its magic to work on us... forbearance isn't passive at all. It's a powerfully active spiritual force, (67-70).