Sheridan's eyes fell to the watery gateway as he begrudgingly donned the novel wetsuit and pulled on the crown of arc lamps. Following Kunchen's lead, he cinched it tightly around his waist, feet, and neck. And all the while his eyes returned to the teeming portal. Kunchen took notice. 'This whirlpool is like the mighty river of life.' Kunchen said. Sheridan watched as Kunchen dipped his right hand into a shallow pool of ice-crusted water, scooping up the pristine liquid in his cupped fingers. He submitted the handful of water to Sheridan. With the gentle tilt of his right hand he poured it out, watching it trickle into his left hand. With unerring kindness in his eyes, Kunchen became the teacher and Sheridan the pupil: 'Observe the water. It is soft, easily bending and transforming to its circumstance.' He poured the water from his left hand. It fell into the writhing water and disappeared in an instant. 'But when it joins with the force of the whirlpool it becomes powerful and unstoppable. You must be flexible like the water, feeling the flow of life, tapping into its current. This is the only way.
Phillip R. White
Our inner weighing of evidence is not a careful mathematical calculation resulting in a probabilistic estimate of truth, but more like a whirlpool blending of the objective and the personal. The result is a set of beliefs - both conscious and unconscious - that guide us in interpreting all the events of our lives.
We can heal our superficial wounds, but how do we kill the pain inside? How can we heal something which no one except us can feel? There is no doctor, no medicine, and no remedy for something like that. People die from sadness almost every day. How can someone be saved from drowning in a whirlpool of their own thoughts?
Speculators may do no harm as bubbles on a steady stream of enterprise. But the position is serious when enterprise becomes a bubble on a whirlpool of speculation. When the capital development of a country becomes a by-product of the activities of a casino, the job is likely to be ill done.
John Maynard Keynes
Your green eye is a reducing chamber. If I look into it long enough, I wil become as small as my own reflection, I will diminish to a point and vanish. I will be drawn down into that black whirlpool and be consumed by you. I shall become so small you can keep me in one of your osier cages and mock my loss of liberty.
Alas, we are the victims of advertisement. Those who taste the joys and sorrows of fame when they have passed forty, know how to look after themselves. They know what is concealed beneath the flowers, and what the gossip, the calumnies, and the praise are worth. But as for those who win fame when they are twenty, they know nothing, and are caught up in the whirlpool.
GETTING KILLED BY TARTARUS didn't seem like much of an honor. As Annabeth stared up at his dark whirlpool face, she decided she'd rather die in some less memorable way-maybe falling down the stairs, or going peacefully in her sleep at age eighty, after a nice quiet life with Percy. Yes, that sounded good.
It was what accidental deaths did to people, made everybody's sea floor irregular and uneven, causing tidal currents to collide, surge upward, thereby resulting in small yet volatile eddies churning at everybody's surface. (In the more dangerous cases, it created a lasting whirlpool in which the strongest swimmers could drown.)
[Footnote:] Pliny the Elder described a Whale called "Balaena or Whirlpool, which is so long and broad as to take up more in length and breadth than two acres of ground." This brings up again the old question: Are the classics doomed? Our ancestors believed that four years of this sort of information would inevitably produce a President, or at least a Cabinet Member. It didn't seem to work out that way.
There was such an incredible logic to kissing, such a metal-to-magnet pull between two people that it was a wonder that they found the strength to prevent themselves from succumbing every second. Rightfully, the world should be a whirlpool of kissing into which we sank and never found the strength to rise up again.
Our life depends on the kind of thoughts we nurture. If our thoughts are peaceful, calm, meek, and kind, then that is what our life is like. If our attention is turned to the circumstances in which we live, we are drawn into a whirlpool of thoughts and can have neither peace nor tranquility.
Thaddeus of Vitovnica
Silence? What can New York-noisy, roaring, rumbling, tumbling, bustling, story, turbulent New York-have to do with silence? Amid the universal clatter, the incessant din of business, the all swallowing vortex of the great money whirlpool-who has any, even distant, idea of the profound repose... of silence?
Silence? What can New York-noisy, roaring, rumbling, tumbling, bustling, story, turbulent New York-have to do with silence? Amid the universal clatter, the incessant din of business, the all swallowing vortex of the great money whirlpool-who has any, even distant, idea of the profound repose......of silence?
My soul is a black maelstrom, a great madness spinning about a vacuum, the swirling of a vast ocean around a hole in the void, and in the waters, more like whirlwinds than waters, float images of all I ever saw or heard in the world: houses, faces, books, boxes, snatches of music and fragments of voices, all caught up in a sinister, bottomless whirlpool.
One of the strongest motives that leads men to art and science is escape from everyday life with its painful crudity and hopeless dreariness. Such men make this cosmos and its construction the pivot of their emotional life, in order to find the peace and security which they cannot find in the narrow whirlpool of personal experience.
We try to keep our lives above the raging waters of turbulance... We try to swim frantically out of this whirlpool of frustration and emotional anguish, blameless chains reign over our nameless game of survival and pain. We must work to gain, we must toil and train, for I promise the sun will shine again. The waters will subside, and life will abide to the brightest of times. God bless the subconscious mind!
Leif Ericsson Leo Veness
Knowledge and book learning are not wisdom, " said the captain. "Is this book wisdom?" asked Lucy, putting the manuscript back on the table. "It has some elements of wisdom in it, me dear, " replied the captain. "I did not lead a very wise life myself but it was a full one and a grown-up one. You come to age very often through shipwreck and disaster, and at the heart of the whirlpool some men find God.
Mariam lay on the couch, hands tucked between her knees, watched the whirlpool of snow twisting and spinning outside the window. She remembered Nana saying once that each snowflake was a sigh heaved by an aggrieved woman somewhere in the world. That all the sighs drifted up the sky, gathered into clouds, then broke into tiny pieces that fell silently on the people below. As a reminder of how people like us suffer, she'd said. How quietly we endure all that falls upon us.
Never during its pilgrimage is the human spirit completely adrift and alone. From start to finish its nucleus is the Atman, the god-within... underlying its whirlpool of transient feelings, emotions, and delusions is the self-luminous, abiding point of the transpersonal god. As the sun lights the world even when cloud-covered, 'the Immutable is never seen but is the Witness; it is never heard but is the Hearer; it is never thought but is the Thinker; it is never known but is the Knower. There is no other witness but This, no other knower but This." from the Upanishad
[Rich says they came up with an ingenious way to resolve the family's plight and help real-life hurricane victims, too.] One of Reba's great loves is her work for Habitat for Humanity, ... So that's how the family ends up getting relocated to New Orleans. In this episode we're keeping awareness of the hurricane survivors alive and promoting one of the solutions. We'll be running PSAs for Habitat and Whirlpool, a company that is a great contributor to Habitat.
Instead of turning away from them (war conditions) in instinctive horror, as people seem to expect, the child may turn towards them with primitive excitement. The real danger is not that the child, caught up all innocently in the whirlpool of war, will be shocked into illness. The danger lies in the fact that the destruction ranging in the outer world may meet the very real aggressiveness ranging in the inside of the child
Man tries to make for himself in the fashion that suits him best a simplified and intelligible picture of the world; he then tries to some extent to substitute this cosmos of his for the world of experience, and thus to overcome it. This is what the painter, the poet, the speculative philosopher, and the natural scientists do, each in his own fashion. Each makes this cosmos and its construction the pivot of his emotional life, in order to find in this way peace and security which he can not find in the narrow whirlpool of personal experience.
Many women don't know what orgasm is. Many men don't know was total orgasm is. Many only achieve a local orgasm, a genital orgasm; it is confined to the genitals. Just a small ripple in the genitals-and finished. It is not like possession when the whole body moves into a whirlpool and you are lost in the abyss. For a few moments time stops and the mind does not function. For a few moments you do not know who you are. Then it is a total orgasm.
A living body is not a fixed thing but a flowing event, like a flame or a whirlpool: the shape alone is stable, for the substance is a stream of energy going in at one end and out at the other. We are particularly and temporarily identifiable wiggles in a stream that enters us in the form of light, heat, air, water, milk, bread, fruit, beer, beef Stroganoff, caviar, and pate de foie gras. It goes out as gas and excrement - and also as semen, babies, talk, politics, commerce, war, poetry, and music. And philosophy.
True, t is only individuals who starve, but what security has the working-man that it may not be his turn tomorrow? Who assures him employment, who vouches for it that, if for any reason or no reason his lord and master discharges him tomorrow, he can struggle along with those dependant upon him, until he may find some one else 'to give him bread'? Who guarantees that willingness to work shall suffice to obtain work, that uprightness, industry, thrift, and the rest of the virtues recommended by the bourgeoisie, are really his road to happiness? No one. He knows that every breeze that blows, every whim of his employer, every bad turn of trade may hurl him back into the fierce whirlpool from which he has temporarily saved himself, and in which it is hard and often impossible to keep his head above water. He knows that, though he may have the means of living today, it is very uncertain whether he shall tomorrow.
Put it on record -I am an Arab And the number of my card is fifty thousand I have eight children And the ninth is due after summer. What's there to be angry about? Put it on record. -I am an Arab Working with comrades of toil in a quarry. I have eight childern For them I wrest the loaf of bread, The clothes and exercise books From the rocks And beg for no alms at your doors, -Lower not myself at your doorstep. -What's there to be angry about? Put it on record. -I am an Arab. I am a name without a tide, Patient in a country where everything Lives in a whirlpool of anger. -My roots -Took hold before the birth of time -Before the burgeoning of the ages, -Before cypess and olive trees, -Before the proliferation of weeds. My father is from the family of the plough -Not from highborn nobles. And my grandfather was a peasant -Without line or genealogy. My house is a watchman's hut -Made of sticks and reeds. Does my status satisfy you? -I am a name without a surname. Put it on Record. -I am an Arab. Color of hair: jet black. Color of eyes: brown. My distinguishing features: -On my head the 'iqal cords over a keffiyeh -Scratching him who touches it. My address: -I'm from a village, remote, forgotten, -Its streets without name -And all its men in the fields and quarry. -What's there to be angry about? Put it on record. -I am an Arab. You stole my forefathers' vineyards -And land I used to till, -I and all my childern, -And you left us and all my grandchildren -Nothing but these rocks. -Will your government be taking them too -As is being said? So! -Put it on record at the top of page one: -I don't hate people, -I trespass on no one's property. And yet, if I were to become starved -I shall eat the flesh of my usurper. -Beware, beware of my starvation. -And of my anger!
LITTLE BOY WAR He stands alone On a vacant road, Hands shaking from the cold. His heart is aching from the untold. Under his right arm Is a tattered bag, Which he holds tightly As if it were filled with gold. He's just six, Going on seven. And it's past ten, Going on eleven. He takes another toke From his cowboy smoke, And wishes he too Could have died with his brother And taken the ride to Heaven. His tummy rumbles and grumbles. He feels faint and tries hard not to stumble. His eyes scream with muted cries, Too loud for his tired soul to conjure enough energy To even mumble. Little kid scared, Alone in the middle of a war zone somewhere, Past curfew and without a clue As to what to do or to go where. He is just standing there with A shark's glazed and Lifeless stare. And yet, His eyes reveal a whirlpool of disaster, Just another tragic kid Who can't help growing up any faster. The streets are dark and it's just him, Standing in the shadow of a blinking ATM. He now thinks of his worn mother, And how she once took his torn shirt And lovingly sewn its hem back together. He never understood Why she had always told him: 'Buckle your sandals!' She used to call, 'Buckle them good So you walk right and Stand taller than them all!' So why did he feel so small? And why does he feel like he's about to fall? He kicks his little sandals At the sand Trying to understand What Uncle Sam And his freedom plan Had done to his once beautiful land. Babylon is crashing. In front of him, memories are flashing - Rubble, ash, blood, and dust, An empire once fueled with beauty and gust Now buried under artillery, bones, and rust. In the corner of his eye, He sees a tank suddenly appear He tries to focus on its lights Like a lost and rampant deer Then that chilling electric sound Cuts and pierces through his ears The tank stops. A lady emerges from its top, And examines the boy and sneers. She asks him what he is doing outside by himself And warns him that there are now new rules That all must adhere. But Little Boy War Glares without A drip of fear. He swings his precious bag high up in the air And cries: 'I'm not alone! Look! My mother is in here!' I watched from a distance Then turn away to disappear My heart felt like a cold rock And I couldn't control my tears. Behind my back And in my mind The little boy's Words echo forever So loud And clear: 'In here and always near. Her hands and heart are right here!