We've definitely been taught to what I call 'aspirate the wound,'
call wound
I saw him (Robert) standing there, and I knew I had to say something. So I walked over and asked him where the baked beans were. We struck up a conversation, and I wound up inviting him to a dinner party we were having that night.
night conversation party wound dinner
After a long discussion with Mr. Holmes, we finally wound up with, I think, an agreement which will satisfy all parties.
parties wound discussion agreement
That was good execution on their part. We were way too far ahead of their pitcher. We have to sit back better than that. There were a lot of little things that cost us runs early, then wound up costing us big time.
time good things early wound execution big part
Kevin was too easy a target. Barry Manilow was right to tone his delivery down, but the advice didn't take and once again he wound up sounding like Jim Nabors.
advice wound easy
We were prepared for a more difficult ride than we wound up with. An S
ride difficult wound
He was stripped on the top of the joint behind the hock,.. It could have been nasty but fortunately the wound wasn't too deep.
deep wound
She had a stab wound on her right back and on the abdomen and a bruise caused by a hard object on her neck.
hard wound
A lot of parents are extremely thankful we're trying to fill a void they'd had in the past. We've been looking for a long time to fill in the gap between regular ed and special ed students, which wound up being our biggest percentage of dropouts.
time past parents thankful special wound students void
It takes a lot to wound a man without illusions
man illusions wound
The optimist already sees the scar over the wound; the pessimist still sees the wound underneath the scar
wound
Love is a hidden fire, A pleasant sore, A delicious poison, A delectable pain, An agreeable torment, A sweet and throbbing wound, A gentle death
pain death sweet fire poison hidden wound torment love
The wound is the place where the Light enters you.
light brokenness suffering healing scars place wound
Give yourself entirely to those around you. Be generous with your blessings. A kind gesture can reach a wound that only compassion can heal.
kindness life generosity action success kind compassion blessings helping-others giving generous wound heal give
Good art wounds as well as delights. It must, because our defenses against the truth are wound so tightly around us. But as art chips away at our defenses, it also opens us to healing potentialities that transcend intellectual games and ego-preserving strategies.
truth beauty games art existentialism healing good intellectual wounds wound
But I realized something. About art. And psychiatry. They're both self-perpetuating systems. Like religion. All of them promise you a sense of inner worth and meaning, and spend a lot of time telling you about the suffering you have to go through to achieve it. As soon as you get a problem in any one of them, the solution it gives is always to go deeper into the same system. They're all in rather uneasy truce with one another in what's actually a mortal battle. Like all self-reinforcing systems. At best, each is trying to encompass the other two and define them as sub-groups. You know: religion and art are both forms of madness and madness is the realm of psychiatry. Or, art is the study and praise of man and man's ideals, so therefore a religious experience just becomes a brutalized aesthetic response and psychiatry is just another tool for the artist to observe man and render his portraits more accurately. And the religious attitude I guess is that the other two are only useful as long as they promote the good life. At worst, they all try to destroy one another. Which is what my psychiatrist, whether he knew it or not, was trying, quite effectively, to do to my painting. I gave up psychiatry too, pretty soon. I just didn't want to get all wound up in any systems at all.
worth philosophy life man time system art religion sense meaning experience thought suffering religious attitude problem good praise artist battle achieve study psychiatry promise madness solution behaviour wound painting systems ideals realm pretty worst destroy observe psychiatrist
The finished clock is resplendent. At first glance it is simply a clock, a rather large black clock with a white face and a silver pendulum. Well crafted, obviously, with intricately carved woodwork edges and a perfectly painted face, but just a clock. But that is before it is wound. Before it begins to tick, the pendulum swinging steadily and evenly. Then, then it becomes something else. The changes are slow. First, the color changes in the face, shifts from white to grey, and then there are clouds that float across it, disappearing when they reach the opposite side. Meanwhile, bits of the body of the clock expand and contract, like pieces of a puzzle. As though the clock is falling apart, slowly and gracefully. All of this takes hours. The face of the clock becomes a darker grey, and then black, with twinkling stars where numbers had been previously. The body of the clock, which has been methodically turning itself inside out and expanding, is now entirely subtle shades of white and grey. And it is not just pieces, it is figures and objects, perfectly carved flowers and planets and tiny books with actual paper pages that turn. There is a silver dragon that curls around part of the now visible clockwork, a tiny princess in a carved tower who paces in distress, awaiting an absent prince. Teapots that pour into teacups and minuscule curls of steam that rise from them as the seconds tick. Wrapped presents open. Small cats chase small dogs. An entire game of chess is played. At the center, where a cuckoo bird would live in a more traditional timepiece, is the juggler. Dress in harlequin style with a grey mask, he juggles shiny silver balls that correspond to each hour. As the clock chimes, another ball joins the rest until at midnight he juggles twelve balls in a complex pattern. After midnight, the clock begins once more to fold in upon itself. The face lightens and the cloud returns. The number of juggled balls decreases until the juggler himself vanishes. By noon it is a clock again, and no longer a dream.
numbers style chase change time rest game art live chess fantasy body clouds color dream cats stars black prince small dragon flowers dogs pieces mask falling face open wound complex princess bird white inside clock cloud part pages paper dress tower books side rise visible
The man who is contented to be only himself, and therefore less a self, is in prison. My own eyes are not enough for me, I will see through those of others. Reality, even seen through the eyes of many, is not enough. I will see what others have invented. Even the eyes of all humanity are not enough. I regret that the brutes connot write books. Very gladly would I learn what face things present to a mouse or a bee; more gladly still would I perceive the olfactory world charged with all the information and emotion it carries for a dog. Literary experience heals the wound, without undermining the privilege, of individuality.. In reading great literature I become a thousand men and yet remain myself. Like the night sky in the Greek poem, I see with a myriad of eyes, but it is still I who see. Here, as in worship, in love, in moral action, and in knowing, I transcend myself; and am never more myself than when I do.
reading prison information literature life man men action individuality humanity reality experience knowing world regret present sky poem night write literary learn worship moral eyes dog emotion face things wound greek great love privilege books
-You're pretty hard-boiled, Tinker Bell.-Call me that name again and you'll be wondering how your bollocks wound up lodged in your windpipe--from below. Just because we don't get to your side of things much anymore doesn't mean we don't know anything. 'If you believe in fairies, clap your hands!' If you believe in fairies, kiss my rosy pink arse is more like it. Now are you going to shut your gob or not?
wondering hands things kiss wound fairies hard-boiled pretty books side
I think we ought to read only the kind of books that wound and stab us.
kind wound read books
Like the pain of a bad wound, the effect of a deep shock takes some while to be felt. When a child is told, for the first time in his life, that a person he has known is dead, although he does not disbelieve it, he may well fail to comprehend it and later ask--perhaps more than once--where the dead person is and when he is coming back.
pain life death time deep person bad child shock dead fail wound effect
She collapsed at the bottom of the trail, at the edge of the ghost town. Dekka sat on Edilio and pressed down on the wound. The force of the blood was weaker now. She could almost hold the blood back now, not a good thing, no, because it meant he was almost finished, his brave heart almost done beating. Dekka looked up straight into the glittering eyes of a coyote. She could sense the others around her, closing in. Wary but sensing that a fresh meal was close at hand.
force death sense heart good blood eyes gone-series brave wound hand close fresh thing ghost meal
When a man sees a dying animal, horror comes over him: that which he himself is, his essence, is obviously being annihilated before his eyes--is ceasing to be. But when the dying one is a person, and a beloved person, then, besides a sense of horror at the annihilation of life, there is a feeling of severance and a spiritual wound which, like a physical wound, sometimes kills and sometimes heals, but always hurts and fears any external, irritating touch.
life man death sense spiritual feeling essence person fears wound touch animal dying physical horror beloved
Do you remember the sight we saw, my soul, that soft summer morninground a turning in the path, the disgusting carcass on a bed scattered with stones, its legs in the air like a woman in needburning its wedding poisonslike a fountain with its rhythmic sobs,I could hear it clearly flowing with a long murmuring sound, but I touch my body in vain to find the wound.I am the vampire of my own heart, one of the great outcasts condemned to eternal laughterwho can no longer smile. Am I dead?I must be dead.
poetry sound wedding vampires death soul body heart smile murder woman remember vain vampire summer eternal find air dead wound touch fountain hear path sight great bed horror stones legs
The sorrow for the dead is the only sorrow from which we refuse to be divorced. Every other wound we seek to heal - every other affliction to forget; but this wound we consider it a duty to keep open - this affliction we cherish and brood over in solitude. Where is the mother who would willingly forget the infant that perished like a blossom from her arms, though every recollection is a pang? Where is the child that would willingly forget the most tender of parents, though to remember be but to lament? Who, even in the hour of agony, would forget the friend over whom he mourns? Who, even when the tomb is closing upon the remains of her he most loved, when he feels his heart, as it were, crushed in the closing of its portal, would accept of consolation that must be bought by forgetfulness? No, the love which survives the tomb is one of the noblest attributes of the soul. If it has its woes, it has likewise its delights; and when the overwhelming burst of grief is calmed into the gentle tear of recollection, when the sudden anguish and the convulsive agony over the present ruins of all that we most loved are softened away in pensive meditation on all that it was in the days of its loveliness - who would root out such a sorrow from the heart? Though it may sometimes throw a passing cloud over the bright hour of gaiety, or spread a deeper sadness over the hour of gloom, yet who would exchange it even for the song of pleasure, or the burst of revelry? No, there is a voice from the tomb sweeter than song. There is a remembrance of the dead to which we turn even from the charms of the living. Oh, the grave! The grave! It buries every error - covers every defect - extinguishes every resentment! From its peaceful bosom spring none but fond regrets and tender recollections.
ruins duty solitude death affliction days soul voice meditation parents resentment heart sadness living sorrow present song bright mother remembrance remember regrets gloom child agony grief pleasure friend grave spring forget dead open wound heal cloud consolation error peaceful lament arms accept love anguish recollection forgetfulness
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