Anger

Passages

Every passage tagged with this emotion in the Vela corpus. Search the body text, narrow by source or register, click through to a book’s profile to see how the passage sits with the rest of the work.

Page 53 of 447 · 20 per page

• From Synanon Kid: Book One: A Memoir of Growing Up in the Synanon Cult

  You can live here, but it won’t be with me. I’ll go and live with my dad.” “Your dad?” Ray sneered. “If he really wanted you to live with him, don’t you think he would have tried to make that happen?” I stepped back from my stepfather. My throat felt tight, and it was hard to swallow or speak. “If I can’t live with my dad,” I whispered, tears filling my eyes, “then I will find a relative who will take me, or I will run away and live on the street. But I won’t live here, I promise you that.” I turned away from the three of them and ran toward our car. I did not wait by the car long before Theresa came to talk with me. I listened, unmoved, while she apologized for Ray’s outburst. She spoke about how much she wanted us to be a family and to find a community that we all liked. If even one of us didn’t want live in a particular community, then we would keep looking. I sighed, feeling my anger dissipate. Why couldn’t Theresa be like my Uncle Danny’s wife, Aunt Rosa, whose world revolved around feeding people, rearranging the contents of her food pantry, and dusting spotless furniture? The other day while we visited at Uncle Danny’s house, Aunt Rosa gave me a rundown on who preferred crunchy peanut butter over smooth, the variety of crackers I could choose from to go with the peanut butter, and her contemplation on Kool Aid versus lemonade. I stopped listening when she began to talk about sandwiches. At least Aunt Rosa’s myopic focus on domestic matters did not result in dramatic consequences for her children. Theresa left me sitting in the car. I watched her walk slowly away, defeat rounding her shoulders. It galled me that we hadn’t made a clean break from all things Synanon, including Ray and Sara. Why were we wasting our time checking out places like the Summit Lighthouse? Since arriving in LA, we’d made our rounds visiting various relatives, my relatives . I’d become territorial in regard to the life I’d had before and didn’t want to share it. In my mind there was a clear divide between my post-Synanon family and my LA family. However, much to my frustration, Sara accompanied me everywhere I went. We had never been close, we weren’t even really friends while in Synanon, but now I found that I had to share my whole life with her. There she’d be, clutching my step-grandmother’s arm and laughing at her colloquial Louisiana accent or sitting silent and watchful while I chatted and played with my cousins. When they paid any attention to her, a roiling jealousy bubbled up inside me and I’d have to walk away. I finally put my foot down when Theresa suggested I take Sara along while I visited with my dad. I would not share him.

• From The Things They Carried (1990)

  I remember the rage in my stomach. Later it burned down to a smoldering self-pity, then to numbness. At dinner that night my father asked what my plans were. "Nothing," I said. "Wait." I spent the summer of 1968 working in an Armour meatpacking plant in my hometown of Worthington, Minnesota. The plant specialized in pork products, and for eight hours a day I stood on a quarter-mile assembly line —more properly, a disassembly line—removing blood clots from the necks of dead pigs. My job title, I believe, was Declotter. After slaughter, the hogs were decapitated, split down the length of the belly, pried open, eviscerated, and strung up by the hind hocks on a high conveyer belt. Then gravity took over. By the time a carcass reached my spot on the line, the fluids had mostly drained out, everything except for dense clots of blood in the neck and upper chest cavity. To remove the stuff, I used a kind of water gun. The machine was heavy, maybe eighty pounds, and was suspended from the ceiling by a thick rubber cord. There was some bounce to it, an elastic up- and-down give, and the trick was to maneuver the gun with your whole body, not lifting with the arms, just letting the rubber cord do the work for you. At one end was a trigger; at the muzzle end was a small nozzle and a steel roller brush. As a carcass passed by, you'd lean forward and swing the gun up against the clots and squeeze the trigger, all in one motion, and the brush would whirl and water would come shooting out and you'd hear a quick splattering sound as the clots dissolved into a fine red mist. It was not pleasant work. Goggles were a necessity, and a rubber apron, but even so it was like standing for eight hours a day under a lukewarm blood-shower. At night I'd go home smelling of pig. It wouldn't go away. Even after a hot bath, scrubbing hard, the stink was always there—like old bacon, or sausage, a greasy pig-stink that soaked deep into my skin and hair. Among other things, I remember, it was tough getting dates that summer. I felt isolated; I spent a lot of time alone. And there was also that draft notice tucked away in my wallet.

• From Synanon Kid: Book One: A Memoir of Growing Up in the Synanon Cult

  There were more seminars about the greatness of the commune and all that it had to offer. “The outside world is depraved with its miserable values and shortsighted ways,” demonstrators lectured. “You are lucky to get such a valuable education.” In one seminar a male demonstrator kicked things off by asking, “Who wants to leave Synanon?” Those of us who raised our hands were weeded out and sent to sit on the other side of the room. For the next two hours we were calmly lectured on the merits of Synanon and Charles Dederich’s vision, a warm smile injected here and there. After this longwinded psychological inoculation, we were again asked who wanted to leave. My hand was the only one that went up. I didn’t know whether my peers gave up their ground simply to end the talky lecture, were too scared to show their opinions publicly again or had been inspired by the chatty informality of the speech, but I knew without a doubt that I wanted out. Would they let me go if I became insistent enough? The demonstrator’s smooth, persuasive voice became harsh and probing, but I waited it out. When my turn came to talk, I simply stated that Synanon was not for everyone and that it was never my choice to come in the first place. This time the other children and even some of the other earlier dissenters joined in the attacks. I remained stubbornly unconvinced and reiterated that I wanted to leave. The meeting ended late that night. I had not given in, a loss for the school. I became more rebellious. Weeks after the propaganda seminar I got up without permission from a dinner that had suddenly turned into a silent meal, the environment menacing and demonstrators hawkishly watching us, a punishment that far exceeded the small infraction of several kids talking too loud outside the dining hall before meal time. Tired of it all, I simply walked out, ignoring one of the demonstrators who yelled after me, “Where are you going?” I walked back to my dorm and into my room, where I grabbed a novel and lay back on my bed to read. I stubbornly refused the command of one of the children sent to retrieve me. A demonstrator came to my room, treading carefully. It was a curious matter that I wasn’t intimidated. “Why did you leave the meal?” she asked. “Because I’ve done nothing wrong, but I’m being punished anyway. I’m not going to sit in fear while I eat.” The demonstrator did not reply right away. I watched her thinking over what I’d said. My lack of fear and refusal to be the victim in their bullying behavior had interrupted the usual script. “Some of you kids were screaming and being disruptive outside of the dining hall,” she said. “Yes,” I replied, “but I wasn’t one of them. Most of us were being quiet.

• From The Things They Carried (1990)

  I didn't complain. In an odd way, though, there were times when I missed the adventure, even the danger, of the real war out in the boonies. It's a hard thing to explain to somebody who hasn't felt it, but the presence of death and danger has a way of bringing you fully awake. It makes things vivid. When you're afraid, really afraid, you see things you never saw before, you pay attention to the world. You make close friends. You become part of a tribe and you share the same blood—you give it together, you take it together. On the other hand, I'd already been hit with two bullets; I was superstitious; I believed in the odds with the same passion that my friend Kiowa had once believed in Jesus Christ, or the way Mitchell Sanders believed in the power of morals. I figured my war was over. If it hadn't been for the constant ache in my butt, I'm sure things would've worked out fine. But it hurt. At night I had to sleep on my belly. That doesn't sound so terrible until you consider that I'd been a back-sleeper all my life. I'd lie there all fidgety and tight, then after a while I'd feel a swell of anger come on. I'd squirm around, cussing, half nuts with pain, and pretty soon I'd start remembering how Bobby Jorgenson had almost killed me. Shock, I'd think—how could he forget to treat for shock? I'd remember how long it took him to get to me, and how his fingers were all jerky and nervous, and the way his lips kept twitching under that ridiculous little mustache. The nights were miserable. Sometimes I'd roam around the base. I'd head down to the wire and stare out at the darkness, out where the war was, and think up ways to make Bobby Jorgenson feel exactly what I felt. I wanted to hurt him. In March, Alpha Company came in for stand-down. I was there at the helipad to meet the choppers. Mitchell Sanders and Azar and Henry Dobbins and Dave Jensen and Norman Bowker slapped hands with me and we piled their gear in my jeep and drove down to the Alpha hootches. We partied until chow time. Afterward, we kept on partying. It was one of the rituals. Even if you weren't in the mood, you did it on principle. By midnight it was story time. "Morty Phillips used up his luck," Bowker said. I smiled and waited. There was a tempo to how stories got told. Bowker peeled open a finger blister and sucked on it. "Go on," Azar said. "Tell him everything." "Well, that's about it. Poor Morty wasted his luck. Pissed it away." "On nothing," Azar said. "The dummy pisses it away on nothing."

• From Synanon Kid: Book One: A Memoir of Growing Up in the Synanon Cult

  My gaze darted around the room, searching for Theresa, but I didn’t see her. “Are they all here?” one of the men asked. It was then that I noticed Sara off in a far corner, squeezed among the adults. Someone grabbed her arm and yanked her to the middle of the room. She kept her gaze cast down toward the floor, her hands folded neatly in front of her. A deep blush scorched her neck and spread in an angry rush to her cheeks, smothering them in blotches. Hushed conversations circulated among the adults before suddenly dying down. A quiver of energy snaked through us kids, drawing us closer together. From the recesses of the unlit part of the dining hall, a man strode toward the center of the room where Sara stood. “How dare you try to run away from Synanon!” His words seemed to blast through her small form, but instead of being cowed, she lifted her head and I could see the disgust and defiance on her flushed face. Here was the truth that so many of us children felt, displayed clearly on her features. Her accuser was not prepared for this small act of rebellion. He began to yell louder, pushing his face into hers. “Not only did you run away, but you inconvenienced everyone. We all had to stay up and look for you! We had to call your father from the ranch so that he could come over here and deal with you!” Sara’s eyes widened. “Ray!” Ray stepped out from the pack of angry, bitter adults. His hair, just growing in from a recent shaving, stood in little dark indignant spikes all over his head. His stubbly face carried a greenish hue under the lighting. His brown eyes squinted into a hatred that his daughter did not deserve. Like many of us, Ray still wore his pajamas. He practically ran up to Sara, carrying a grossly large wooden paddle. “You’ve inconvenienced everyone! I was awakened in the middle of the night to drive all the way out here because of you! I’m fucking angry. Tonight, I’m ashamed that you’re my daughter.” Sara’s chin quivered, but her eyes never left Ray’s face, as if she were trying to understand something once and for all. He grabbed her arm, almost pulling her off her feet and proceeded to beat her with the paddle. The force that he used would have knocked her to the ground if he hadn’t been tightly grasping her arm beneath the shoulder. At first she did not cry. We heard only the loud thwacking sounds that echoed through the building. All of us kids had received paddlings at one time or another. Once, I, along with a group of other children, had been required to witness Gloria’s spanking. The demonstrator had stripped her of her pants and underwear, forced her to bend to the point where we could plainly see her vagina and beat her until she spurted pee.

• From Synanon Kid: Book One: A Memoir of Growing Up in the Synanon Cult

  It was just a few kids making all the noise, but we’re all getting punished, having to sit like a bunch of criminals. I won’t eat like that anymore.” The demonstrator tilted her head and then nodded. “You’re right. We overreacted. I’m going to lift the ban. Come back to dinner.” Surprised by her acquiescence, I didn’t move at first. She reached out and took my hand. “Come,” she coaxed. “Let’s go back to dinner.” It was during a game that I finally reached my limit with the unbridled authority in the hands of immature adults. A demonstrator in her early twenties sat, smugly attacking my mother’s character and intellect. “Your mother is a stupid woman,” she said with a smirk. “She is slow. Dimwitted, in fact. I doubt she could survive at all on her own. She needs Synanon, but Synanon doesn’t need her.” The circle had grown quiet. No one backed the demonstrator’s play. Her mean-spirited attack crossed an invisible boundary we children had with one another. It was an unspoken rule that we did not hammer at each other’s parents. I stood up, leaving my chair and walked over to the demonstrator. “You need to go back to your chair,” she said, her gaze darting around the circle, looking for support. No one uttered a sound. My hand closed into a fist, which I shoved toward her face. I imagined my knuckles pushing up hard into the soft underside of her chin. Her gaze stopped roaming, and her eyes locked with mine, her shame and guilt, the wrongness of her attack growing in her widening pupils. I wanted to crush her round, soft face. “Say one more word about my mother,” I threatened. She said nothing. “I don’t care about the rules,” I said, bringing up my fist so that it was inches under her chin. “You bring up my mother again and I’ll hurt you,” I hissed through gritted teeth. My throat felt swollen and it was hard for me to talk. I watched her swallow, a flush of red flaming her cheeks and shooting down her neck, but she remained silent. I left then, opening the door and slamming it behind me. As I strode down the hallway, someone yelled, “Celena.” I turned to see Charlie, my old tormenter, standing at the door. The usual malice wasn’t there. Something had replaced it. Pity? I tucked my chin and walked on. “She shouldn’t have done that,” Charlie called after me. “She had no right.” I picked up my pace. If I walked fast enough, maybe I could beat the tears. In another game, much larger than the usual group of ten or twelve, thirty of us sat in a circle. Verbal attacks, swift and brutal, shifted like an ill wind in no particular order from one person to the next. When it was my turn to be in the hot seat, twenty-nine kids screamed at me. I didn’t care.

• From A Greek-English Lexicon (Liddell-Scott) (1957)

  αἰτιάομαι, used by Hom. only in Ep. forms, 3 pl. αἰτιόωνται, opt. aittowo, -ῳτο, inf. αἰτιάασθαι, impf. ἠτιάασθε, - όωντο :—fut. -άσομαι Ar. Nub. 1433, Plat.: aor. ἠτιᾶσάμην Eur., Thuc., etc., Ion. part. aire- nodpevos Hdt.: pf. ἠτίᾶμαι Dem. 408. 7, lon. - ημαι Hipp. (also in pass. sense, and aor. ἡτιάθην always 50, v. infr. 11) : cf. ἐπ--, κατ-αιτιάομαι : (αἰτία). To charge, accuse, censure, blame, c. acc. pers., τάχα KEV kat ἀναίτιον αἰτιόῳτο 1]. 11. 654, cf. 78; ἀναίτιον αἰτιάασθαι 13. 775, cf. Od. 20. 135; θεοὺς βροτοὶ αἰτιόωνται Od. 1. 32; καί μ᾽ ἠτιάασθε ἕκαστος Il. 16. 202; so also Soph. O. T. 608, Ph. 685, etc.; aiz. ws puapovs Plat. Rep. 562 D; air. τινά τινος to accuse of a thing, Hdt. 5. 27, Plat. Rep. 619 C, Dem. 548. 21, etc. ;—c. inf., αἰτ. τινὰ ποιεῖν Tt to accuse one of doing, Hdt. 5. 27, Plat. Criti. 120 C; air. τινὰ ὡς... or ὅτι.., Thuc. 1. 120, Xen. An. 3. 1, 7; air. τινα περί Twos Xen. Hellint=1750i5, caaccs cogn., ait. αἰτίαν κατά τινος to bring a charge against one, Antipho 144. 32:—in this sense, certain tenses are used as Pass. to be accused, aor. 1 ἠτιάθην (always) Thuc. 6. 53., 8. 68, Xen. Hell. 2. 1, 32; pf. ἠτίαμαι Thuc. 3. 61, Plat. Criti. 120 C; fut. αἰτια- θήσομαι Dio C. 37. 56. b. in good sense, ¢o give one the credit of being, suppose, σὲ τὶς αἰτιᾶται νομοθέτην ἀγαθὸν γεγονέναι ; Plat. Rep. 599 E, cf. 309 C, Crat. 396 D; and ν. αἰτία I. 2. 2. c. acc. rei, to lay to one’s charge, impute, τοῦτο air. Xen. Cyr. 3. 1, 29; ταῦτα Dem. 408. 7; c. dupl. acc., τέ ταῦτα τοὺς Λάκωνας αἰτιώμεθα; Ar. Ach, 514. II. to allege as the cause, ait. twa αἴτιον Plat. Phileb. 22 1), Gorg. 518 Ὁ; οὐ τὸ αἴτιον air. not ¢o allege the real cause, Id. Rep. 329 B; τίνα ἔχεις αἰτιάσασθαι... τούτου κύριον ; Ib. 508A; φωνάς τε.. καὶ ἄλλα μυρία ait. Id. Phaedo 98 D; τἀναντία Id. Tim. 88 A; ὧν τὴν πενίαν αἰτιάσαιτ᾽ ἄν τις Dem. 314. 20; τὴν δίνην Arist. Cael. 2. 13, 23; τὸ αὐτόματον Id. Phys. 2. 4, 5. 2. c. inf., to allege that, τὸν λόγον air. δυσχερῆ εἶναι Plat. Prot. 333 Ὁ, cf. Meno 93 D; iAtyyous éx φιλοσοφίας ἐγγίγνεσθαι to allege by way of accusation that.., Id. Rep. 407 C; τῆς ἱερᾶς χώρας ἡτιᾶτο εἶναι he alleged that it was part of.., Dem. 277. II. αἰτίᾶσις, ews,7,acomplaint, accusation, Antipho 132.25, Arist. Poét. 18.3. αἰτιᾶτέον, verb. Adj. one must accuse, Xen. Cyr. 7. 1, 11. 11. one must allege as the cause, Plat. Rep. 379 C, Tim. 57 C, 87 Β. αἰτιᾶτικός, 7, dv, of or for accusation :-- αἰτιατική (sc. πτῶσις) casus accusativus; Ady. —K@s, in the accusative, Gramm.

• From A Greek-English Lexicon (Liddell-Scott) (1957)

  B. Med. to keep or ward off from oneself, to guard or defend one- self against, often with collat. notion of requital, revenge : 1. mostly Ὁ. acc, rei, ἀμύνετο νηλεὲς ἦμαρ 1. 13.5143 ἀμύνεσθαι μόρον Aesch. Ag. 1381; Τὸ δυστυχὲς γὰρ ηὑγέν ει᾿ ἀμύνεται Eur. Heracl. 303; etc. b. c. acc. pers., du. THY Δαρείου στρατιήν Hdt. 3.158; ἔκεινον ἠμύναντο Soph. Fr. 514, cf. 278. 2. that from which danger is warded off in gen., as in Act. (I. 2), ἀμυνόμενοι σφῶν αὐτῶν Il. 12.1553 νηῶν ἠμύ- vovto Ib. 170 :—so too in Prose, τῶν παρ᾽ ἡμῶν ἀμ. Plat. Legg. 637 C. 3. with περί, ἀμύνεσθαι περὶ πάτρης Il. 12. 243; περὶ τῶν οἰκείων Thuc. 2. 39; also, ὑπέρ τινος Xen. Cyn. 9, 9; cf. supr. I. 4: 4. 4050]. to defend oneself, act in self-defence, ἀμύνεσθαι φίλον ἔστω Il. 16.556; ἢν συλλαμβανόμενος ἀμύνηται Hat. 1. 80, cf. 4.174, al.; ἀλλ᾽ ἀμύνου Ar. Eq. 244; τοῦ ἄρξαντος καὶ οὐ τοῦ ἀμυνομένου Antipho 128. 45; οὐδ᾽ ἀμυνόμενος ἀλλ᾽ ὑπάρχων Isocr. 356 A, cf. Plat. Gorg. 456 E; κακῶς πάσχοντα ἀμ. ἀντιδρῶντα κακῶς Plat. Crito 49 D; ἐὸν ἢ χαρίεις, ἀμ. εὖ δρῶν Arist. Eth. N. 8.13, 2, cf. Rhet. 2. 23, II. after Hom., ἀμύνεσθαί τινα commonly means 20 avenge δ on an enemy, and so, like ἀμείβομαι, to requite, repay, punish, Ar. Nub. 1428, Thuc., Plat., etc.: freq. c. dat. instrum., ἔργοις πεπονθὼς ῥήμασίν σ᾽ ἀμύνομαι Soph. O. C. 873; so, ἀμ, τινά σιδήρῳ Antipho 126. 9; τοῖς ὁμοίοις, ταῖς ναυσίν, ἀρετῇ Thuc. I. 42, 142., 4.63: also, ἀμύ- νεσθαί τινά τινος or ὑπέρ τινος to punish for a thing, Thuc. 1. 96., 5. 69: cf. ἀνταμύνομαι. (OF very rarely in Pass., ἀμύνονται ἅται are warded off, Pind. P. τι. 84; ἀμυνέσθω let him be punished, Plat. Legg. 845 Ὁ. ἀμύξ, Ady. (ἀμύσσω) scratching, tearing, v. 1. for ὄδαξ in Nic. Th. 131. ΤΙ. ἄμυξ᾽ ἀμυχή---ἃ doubtful gl. of Hesych. ἄμνξις, ews, 7, (4uvoow) a tearing, rending, mangling, Orph. Arg. 24: scarification, Antyll. ap. Matth. Med. p. 139. ἀ- pvos, ον, wanting muscle, σκέλος Hipp. Art. 819. ἀ-μύριστος, ov, not steeped i in unguents, στέμματα Ο. 1. 5172. 2. metaph. rude, rough, ἀμ. φθεγγομένη Plut. 2. 397 A. ἄ-μῦρος, ov, =foreg., epith. of Lycia, Or. Sib. 5. 128. ἀμύσακτος, ov, (μυσάττω) not abominable, without pollution, A. B. 321, Athanas. ἀμύσσω, Att. -ττω: Ep. impf. ἄμυσσον 1].: fut. ξω Il: aor. ἤμυξα Nonn., Ep. ἄμ-- Anth. P. 7. 218 :—Med., pres., Hipp. 8. 176 Litt.: aor. part. ἀμυξάμενος Anth. P. 7. 491 :—Pass., fut. ἀμυχθήσομαι Aquil.

• From A Greek-English Lexicon (Liddell-Scott) (1957)

  δυσμένεια, ἡ, ill-will, enmity, ἡ ἐκ σοῦ δ. Soph. El. 619; ἐν δ. εἶναι Ib. 1124; δ. ἀρᾶσθαί τινι Eur. Heracl. 901 ; also in Prose, Antipho 125. 28, Plat. Rep. 500 Ὁ. δυσμενέων, a participial form, only found in masc. bearing ill-will, hostile, Od. 2. 72; δυσμενέοντες Ib. 73., 20. 314. δυσμενής, és, (μένοΞ) =foreg., hostile, ἄνδρες δ. Il. 5. 488; δυσμενέες enemies, Il. 16. 521; δυσμενέων ὄχλος Aesch. Theb. 234, cf. 366; also in Hdt. and Trag., esp. Eur. :—c. dat., τῷ πατοῦντι δυσμενής Aesch. Ag. 1193, cf. Soph. Ph. 585; rarely c. gen., ἄνδρα δ. χθονὸς an enemy of the land, Id. Ant. 187:—Adv. -νῶς, Plat. Theaet. 168 B; ὃ. ἔχειν τινί or πρός τινα Isocr. 27 D, etc. II. rarely of things, 5. xoaé Soph. El. 440; δ. ἔρως Xen. Mem. 2. 6, 21, cf. Eur. Alc. 617. Svopevidys, ov, 6,=foreg., ΑΕ]. V. H. 3. 7. Sucpevicds, 7, dv, like an enemy, hostile, Polyb. 6. 7, 8, etc. -κῶς, Id. 8. Io, I, etc. δυσμετάβλητος, ov, hard to alter, Hipp. 384.14, Plut. 2.952B: 5ο,δυσ- μετάβολος, ov, Damocr. ap. Galen. 13. 1003 Kthn. Adv. -Aws, Ib. 1004. δυσμετάδοτος, ov, not imparting freely, Strabo 806. δυσμετάθετος, ov, hard to alter, Polyb. Exc. Vat. 401, Plut. 2. 799 B. δυσμετακίνητος, ov, hard to shift, Eust. 1733. 32, Hesych. δυσμετάκλαστοξβ, ov, hard to break or move, Schol. Soph. O. T. 12. δυσμετάκλητος, ov, hard to change, Geop. 19. 2, 13. δυσμετάπειστος, ov, hard to convince, Cyrill. δυσμεταχείριστος, ov, hard to manage, παῖς Plat. Legg. 808 D; δίκτυα Xen. Cyn. 2, 6 :—hard to attack, στρατός Hdt. 7. 236. δυσμέτρητος, ov, hard to measure, Antipho ap. Poll. 4. 167. δυσμή, ἡ, (δύω) -- δύσις, a setting, mostly in pl., opp. to ἀνατολαί; ἀελίου δ. Soph. O. C. 1245, cf. Aesch. Fr. 66; ἐπὶ δυσμῇσιν ἐών at the point of setting, Hdt. 3. 1043 περὶ ἡλίου δυσμάς Lys. 95. 22: metaph., τὸ γῆρας δυσμαὶ βίου Emped. ap. Arist. Poét. 21, 13. II. the quarter of sunset, the west, ἀπὸ ἑσπέρης τε καὶ ἡλίου δυσμέων Hat. 2. 21; πρὸς ἡλίου δυσμέων Id. 7. 115, cf. 2.33; πρὸς δυσμαῖς Aesch. Pers. 237-—Dor. δυϑμή, Call. Dem. Cal. 10, Fr. 465 (in sing.). δύσμηνις, ει, wrathful, θεός Poll. 1. 39; χόλος Anth. P. 9. 69. δυσμήνϊῖτος, ov, visited by heavy wrath, Anth. P. 7. 141. δυσμήτηρ, Epos, 7, in Od. 23. 97, μῆτερ ἐμὴ δύσμητερ my mother yet no mother. δυσμήτωρ, Dor. -μάτωρ, opos, 6, 7, in Aesch. Supp. 68, δ. κότος an ill mother’s wrath, cf. Lyc. 1174, Nonn. D. 46. 194. δυσμηχᾶνέω, zo be at loss how to do, c. inf., Aesch. Ag. 1360. δυσμήχᾶνος, ov, hard to effect, Epimen. ap. Diog. L. 1. 113, Opp. H. 3. 404. ΤΙ. act. at a loss, Themist. 137 B. δυσμικός, ἡ, dv, (δυσ μή) -- δυτικός, western, Strabo 85, Heliod. 8. 15 ; Sup. -ὦτατος, Ptol. Geogr. 2. 3, 18.

• From A Greek-English Lexicon (Liddell-Scott) (1957)

  ἐμπιπράσκω, to sell i in, Poll. 7. 9, in Pass. ἐμπίπρημι, (not ἐμπίμπρημι, v. sub ἐμπίπλημι): 3 pl. impf. ἐνεπίμπρα- σαν Thuc. 6. 94: also (as if from ἐμπιπράω) inf. ἐμπιπρᾶν, Plut. Cor. "Ὁ: part. ἐμπιπρῶν Polyb. I. 53, 4: impf. ἐνεπίμπρων Xen. Hell. 6. 5, : fut. ἐμπρήσω Ar. Thesm. 749: aor. “ἐνέπρησα Hom, (fut. ἐνιπρήσω IL 15. 702, cf. ἐμπρήθωλ) : aor. med. ἐνεπρήσατο Ὁ. Sm. 5. 485:- Pass., part. ἐμπιπράμενος Hdt. 1. 19: fut. ἐμπεπρήσομαι ae ‘(in med. form) ἐμπρήσομαι Hdt. 6. 9, cf. Paus. 4. 7, 10, Q. Sm. I. 494: aor. éverpnoOny Hdt. 5. 102., 6. 25, Thuc., etc.: pf. ἐμπέπρησμαι Hdt. 8. 144. To kindle, set on fire, ἄστυ, νῆας, often in 1]., mostly with πυρί added; so, τῷ Λημνίῳ... πυρὶ ἔμπρησον Soph. Ph. 8οι; τὸν νηὸν ἐνέπρησαν Hdt. 1. 19, cf. 5. tor, al.; also c. gen., πυρὸς αἰθομένοιο νῆας ἐνιπρῆσαι to burn them by force of fire, Il. 16. 825 οἰκίαν ἐμπι: πράναι Ar. Nub. 1484, | etc. :—Pass. to be on fire, Hdt., etc., v. supr. ἐμπίπτω, fut. ππεσοῦμαι: aor. ἐνέπεσον, Ep. ἔμπεσον. Used as τ of ἐμβάλλω, to fall in or on, ο. dat., ¢ ἔμπεσε πόντῳ Od. 4. 508; ἔμπεσε πέτρῃ Il. 4. 108; ἐν δ᾽ ἔπεσ᾽ ὠκεανῷ, of the Sun, 8. 485: : me ἔμπεσε νηυσίν fire fell upon them, 16. 13; αὐχένι... ἔμπεσεν ἰός 15. 451, cf. 624; also with ἐν, ὡς δ᾽ ὅτε πῦρ. . ἐν ἀξύλῳ ἐμπέσῃ ὕλῃ τι. 155 :—so in Prose and Att., κεραυνοὶ αὐτοῖσι ἐνέπιπτον Hat. 8. 37; ck I. 34, al.; ὁ πύργος ἐμπέσοι σοι Ar. Pl. 180, etc. :—absol., ῥύμῃ ἐμπ. Thuc. 2. 76. 2. to fall upon, attack, ἐν δ᾽ ἔπεσον προμάχοις Cd. 24. 526, cf. 1]. 16. 82; τῷ orparw Eur. Rhes. 127; τοῖς πολεμίοις Xen. Eq. Mag. 8, 25, etc. ; ἐμπεσόντες having fallen on them, Hdt. 3. 146, cf. 7.16, I, al.:—metaph. ¢o insult, τινί Pind. I. 1. 98: so, 3. of Lom diseases, etc., to fall on one, attack. κακὸν ἔμπεσε οἴκῳ Od. 2.453 464

• From Synanon Kid: Book One: A Memoir of Growing Up in the Synanon Cult

  I threw down my book, sprang from my bed and marched over to Charlie. When she saw me approach, she sputtered with laughter. I grabbed the needle of her record player and dragged it back and forth across the album. The loud screeching sounds rendered an instantaneous halt to the humor. “Hey! What the fuck are you doing?” Charlie jumped up, but my hand shot out, hitting hard against her small chest. She fell back, worry flitting across her dark eyes. I wanted to destroy her and everything else. I pulled the album off the player and threw it across the room. A static quiet took the place of the cheerful pop beat as my roommates gazed at me, stilled from shock. I grabbed Charlie’s lamp, tore it from the outlet and threw it with such force that it smashed against the wall. “Stop that!” one of the girls said. The fear in her voice only fueled my anger. I turned on her, but she scrambled away, so I grabbed her bed covers, stripping the mattress and pulling it from the box frame. My strength turned Herculean. I threw more lamps and overturned nightstands. Guttural sounds tore from my throat. “Celena, stop it! Stop it!” Charlie yelled. “We’re sorry!” I ran from the room and out into the sunny afternoon. Under a tree lay Sophie, curled on a blanket and reading. I hated her. I hated that we were always thrown together. In my fit, I grabbed the top of her book, but she held tight, staring at me, her eyes begging me to leave her alone. “What are you doing?” she whined. “Stop it.” I pulled harder at the book, dragging her along the ground until she screamed. Then I ripped the book from her fingers. “Please! Don’t do that!” she cried. I tore out the pages, flung the book aside and jumped on her, hitting her over and over. When she covered her head with her arms and curled to protect herself, I kicked at her hands, until someone grabbed and restrained me. Several seconds passed while a demonstrator roughly shook my body, shaking me out of the blackness. I heard sobbing. It was Sophie, curled like a pill bug, her fingers already swelling. I’d wanted to kill her. Chapter NineteenH it and Run Sometime after that another child was hurt much more severely. We were on a field trip, clustered near a building that might have been a store, somewhere along a road. The Synanon school bus waited at the top of a steep driveway. Two of the boys and I separated from the group and ran down the driveway to the curving highway, which was flanked by redwood trees. One of the boys, Brett, and I decided to cross, but I changed my mind and went back to the shoulder. I was crossing; then I wasn’t. Somehow I knew to stay back even before I saw the car.

• From Synanon Kid: Book One: A Memoir of Growing Up in the Synanon Cult

  I sighed, feeling my anger dissipate. Why couldn’t Theresa be like my Uncle Danny’s wife, Aunt Rosa, whose world revolved around feeding people, rearranging the contents of her food pantry, and dusting spotless furniture? The other day while we visited at Uncle Danny’s house, Aunt Rosa gave me a rundown on who preferred crunchy peanut butter over smooth, the variety of crackers I could choose from to go with the peanut butter, and her contemplation on Kool Aid versus lemonade. I stopped listening when she began to talk about sandwiches. At least Aunt Rosa’s myopic focus on domestic matters did not result in dramatic consequences for her children. Theresa left me sitting in the car. I watched her walk slowly away, defeat rounding her shoulders. It galled me that we hadn’t made a clean break from all things Synanon, including Ray and Sara. Why were we wasting our time checking out places like the Summit Lighthouse? Since arriving in LA, we’d made our rounds visiting various relatives, my relatives . I’d become territorial in regard to the life I’d had before and didn’t want to share it. In my mind there was a clear divide between my post-Synanon family and my LA family. However, much to my frustration, Sara accompanied me everywhere I went. We had never been close, we weren’t even really friends while in Synanon, but now I found that I had to share my whole life with her. There she’d be, clutching my step-grandmother’s arm and laughing at her colloquial Louisiana accent or sitting silent and watchful while I chatted and played with my cousins. When they paid any attention to her, a roiling jealousy bubbled up inside me and I’d have to walk away. I finally put my foot down when Theresa suggested I take Sara along while I visited with my dad. I would not share him. She had no place in our relationship and Theresa had no right to request this of me. My temper tantrum over the suggestion won out and I had a day and a night away from our contrived little family. By the end of the visit with my father, I begged him to let me live with him, but he shook his head and said he was in no position to have me. “Next year will be better,” he promised. “There’s some deals I’m working on and if they come through I stand to make a lot of money and when that happens I’m going to send for you. One day I’m going to be wealthy, Celena, you can count on that. And when that day comes, you will be too. I’m going to buy a mansion in Beverly Hills and you’ll be sitting pretty.”

• From Synanon Kid: Book One: A Memoir of Growing Up in the Synanon Cult

  By the winter of 1969, their relationship ended, and although they were no longer a couple, they maintained an easy friendship. “After your mother and I broke up,” my father told me, “I tried to keep some distance, but she kept calling me, complaining of feeling lonely. So one day, I said, ‘Look, I know of a club in Santa Monica. It’s part of this organization called Synanon. I go there sometimes. They supply food, drink, and live music—all at no cost. Why don’t you go? Just get out and mingle.’” My dad would talk to Theresa’s picture, deep in his story. “‘The only thing about this place is that the Synanon people use it to try to recruit you into their lifestyle, and believe me, Theresa, you don’t want to get involved with them.’ So, I tell your mother, ‘Feign interest, nod, take advantage of all the free stuff, then go home.’ ‘Oh, no,’ she tells me. ‘I’m not going to bother with them. I’ll just go check out the club.’” Raising his eyebrows, my dad would set the picture on his glass coffee table and point at me as I sat listening to him on the white brocade sofa in his modish living room, large abstract paintings displayed stylishly on the textured white walls. “Well, what happens? The next thing I know, your mother tells me she’s joined their little club, and I said, ‘Theresa, didn’t I tell you not to get involved with those people? A bunch of wackos is what they are, running around in overalls, looking like Farmer John. Take over America, my foot. Do you think Americans are going to let a bunch of Howdy Doodys way off in left field take over our country?’” At this point he’d go lecture mode. The commune had robbed him of his most precious asset, his daughter, and now that he had me back, he wanted to wrest every bit of Synanon doctrine from my mind. His lectures about the folly of the cult were forceful and persistent, a desperate scouring of my psyche. “Do you know how many wars we fought with the English, the Spanish, the Indians to make and keep this country? A lot of people died, and the people at Synanon thought we were going to hand our country over to them. I like America just fine. It’ll be over my dead body before I’d let a bunch of Loony Toons take over. And—” He’d jab the air with his finger. “—I’m not the only one who feels that way.” My father’s monologue required no response from me. My job during these outbursts was only to sit and listen. Chapter SixM y Mother’s Story September, 2013; Phone Interview When I left you with your father to move to Synanon, I was transferred to the Oakland facility. After I arrived, a woman searched through all my personal belongings and confiscated my prescription pills.

• From Synanon Kid: Book One: A Memoir of Growing Up in the Synanon Cult

  A roar of cheers erupted from the boys, their faces glistening with moisture. Some grinned so widely it seemed their skin might split. I stepped into the ring and the referee laced my gloves. I did not know the rules of boxing, and no one bothered to explain them. When Buddy rang the little bell, I rushed my opponent and lifted the surprised boy off his feet. The room exploded with shouts as I swung him around amid his angry cries of “Put me down!” For the finale, I threw him, but as we were the same size, we both went flying. My contender landed on his hands and knees with me on his back. Dazed, he sagged through his midsection as the referee jumped in for the countdown. When my opponent didn’t get up, the ref grabbed my arm and announced me the winner. The boy, finally catching his breath, jumped up, yelling, “That’s not how the game goes!” His words were drowned out by the other boys’ yells that he’d been “beat by a girl.” I continued to box with the group for several weeks until the lessons faded like many other activities in the community. Without that outlet, I began to have rages. The first came over me one afternoon when I was relaxing in my shared room and listening to Shawn Cassidy’s “Da Do Run Run” blaring from Charlie’s record player. During one of our many moves, I wound up sharing a room with my enemy and two other girls. Our four twin beds were angled to give the most privacy possible, but it was still a tight fit. We were all in the room that day, languid and lazy, each sprawled on our own bed and absorbed in a personal activity. I flipped through a picture book as Charlie began to sing along with Shawn Cassidy. Small for her age, Charlie had sleek, dark looks and a natural propensity toward horses and Nancy Drew novels. Part of the popular clique, she never let me forget that she considered herself far above me in social ranking. Her glares, sneers and eye rolls indicated her feelings. “The doody run run run. The doody run,” Charlie belted in her young, high voice. The other girls giggled and so did I. I wasn’t as big a Shawn Cassidy fan as some of the other kids were. With his feathered hair, red lips, cutesy puppy-dog look and silver disco jacket, he was too effeminate for my liking. “Yeah, Celena shit in her pants. Yeah, she’s a stupid bitch. The doody run run. The doody run,” Charlie sang. Laughter exploded from the other girls, and I felt my throat close as I tried to focus on my book. My eyes were watering, but something other than sadness was building within me. “Yeah, Celena stinks so bad,” the other girls joined in, singing at the top of their voices.

• From The Historical Jesus (2000)

  C. Jesus acted out this message when he arrived in Jerusalem. He entered the Temple and engaged in symbolic destruction as a warning of what was to come, overturning tables and causing a mild ruckus. 1. This public display and its accompanying message angered some of the chief priests, who recognized how explosive the situation could be during the Passover. 2. Fearing an uprising, the priests conferred, had Jesus arrested, and questioned him about his words against the Temple. 3. Realizing that it would be dangerous to let Jesus run loose, the priests decided to have him taken out of the way. They could not handle the matter themselves, however, because the Romans did not allow Jewish authorities to execute criminals. 4. They delivered Jesus to the governor, Pontius Pilate, who had no qualms at all about disposing of yet one more troublemaker who might cause a major disturbance. Jesus was then executed by the Romans on political charges. We are better informed about Jesus’ last days than about any other period of his life. For the Gospel writers, his life was mostly preparation for his death. A. Thus, the focus of the earliest surviving accounts is on Jesus’ last days. Mark devotes five of his sixteen chapters to the final week of Jesus’ life, and John devotes ten out of twenty-one. 2. It is no stretch to say that the Gospels are principally concerned about Jesus’ passion, that is, the accounts of his suffering and death. Some scholars have said that the Gospels are passion narratives with long introductions. B. There can be no doubt, historically, that for the last week of his life, Jesus left the place of his public ministry, rural Galilee, and went with his disciples to the capital city of Judea, Jerusalem. Why he did so may not seem quite as obvious. 1. A theologian, of course, might say that Jesus traveled to Judea to die for the sins of the world. This view is based on Gospel sayings (such as Jesus’ predictions of his own passion in Mark 8:31, 9:31, and 10:33-34) that cannot pass the criterion of dissimilarity, in that they portray Jesus as knowing the details of his own fate. 2. From a strictly historical perspective, that is, restricting ourselves to what we can show on historical grounds, we should recall that Passover was an enormously popular festival. Maybe, then, Jesus went to Jerusalem simply to celebrate the Passover. ©2000 The Teaching Company Limited Partnership 37 3. On the other hand, Jesus’ actions in Jerusalem appear to have been well thought out. When he arrived, he entered the Temple and caused a disturbance. He then spent several days, in the Temple, teaching his message of the coming kingdom. C. Given Jesus’ understanding that this kingdom was imminent, perhaps it is best to conclude that he went to Jerusalem as part of his mission, precisely to proclaim his apocalyptic message in the heart of Israel itself — the Temple on Passover.

• From Synanon Kid: Book One: A Memoir of Growing Up in the Synanon Cult

  A dimpled girl I’d come to know as Deb asked me something I didn’t hear. “What?” I said. “You,” one of the demonstrators called out, pointing at me. “Leave. We said no talking.” I gripped the edge of the table. My pancakes. “What did I say?” The demonstrator lowered her hand and walked toward me. “Please. I won’t talk anymore. I want to eat.” “Up!” “No.” I sobbed, gripping the table harder. I couldn’t believe this was happening. Another demonstrator joined the first. They stood over me, arms crossed, waiting. “I won’t talk. I promise.” “You’ve lost the privilege. Get up. Now!” My chest felt like it was closing with the mounting frustration that was bursting in gasps from my lips. “I want to eat my pancakes,” I whispered. Their arms extended toward me. As they pulled me from my chair, I grabbed two pancakes from my plate, shoving one into my mouth. The mounting pressure of frustration exploded from me in bits of doughy chunks that flew from my mouth. “I want my pancakes! I want my pancakes!” I screamed, somewhat surprised at my loss of control over my temper. I refused to walk, so my feet dragged across the floor while the demonstrators pulled at my arms. One of them tried to pry my fingers from the crumpled pancake as I strained to get it to my mouth. I received a sharp slap across my face and was tossed out the sliding glass door to wait on the graveled road until breakfast ended. Outside, there was no one. The sky, white with a blanket of cloud cover, stretched endlessly beyond the surrounding hills that engulfed the property. The dry yellow hills were empty and indifferent to my plight. Even nature appeared aloof, orderly and precise like the Synanon people the land sustained. We didn’t go to our usual classrooms after breakfast that day because, we were told, it was more important that as part of our back-to-basics lesson we children learn about environmental preservation. The lesson took place in the playroom in the form of a music class. A man we’d never seen before sat on a chair in the middle of the room with a guitar in his hands. We were ushered in and guided to sit cross-legged on the floor around him. Then we waited while our demonstrator Keith stood off to the side, repeatedly smearing ChapsStick over his lips. The tallest demonstrator and most reticent, Keith kept his communication with us children to the bare minimum of information. In contrast, the man with the guitar seemed to speak volumes with his body alone. When he smiled, he flashed white even teeth and his brown eyes snapped and sparkled, reminding me of a golden retriever. “Who here can tell me how we waste energy?” he said. One of the boys raised his hand. The man pointed to him.

• From Lit: A Memoir (2009)

  I say it with a forceful little puff of air so the fact lands in her like a curare dart. All talk exits the room. We face each other in this vacuumed-out bubble, and part of me knows it’s a pathetic fact that not trying to murder me was all he had to do to win the better-parent prize. Mother sucks her teeth and sits down on the low-lying futon we moved into the dining room for her. But she doesn’t collapse in operatic weeping like she’s done in the past. Which is strange. She seems very still as she pats the side of the futon. She says, Sit down next to me. I’m not in the mood to cuddle and say so. Her eyes are cloudy as an ancient oracle’s. She says, I’ve made amends to you, Mary. Best I could. And that’s it? You’re sober now. I zero out your account. You want to get mad at me, she says, knock yourself out. I don’t want to get mad, Mother, I say. I am fucking mad. Well, get it off your chest, she says. So I do, pacing up and down, ranting like a Pentecostal preacher while she sits in a Buddha-esque pose studying me. Finally, I float into place next to her like a soggy balloon. She stubs out the end of her smoke and looks at me with her misted eyes. She actually shrugs. What will you have me do? she asks. There’s nothing she can do. I say so. After getting sober, you’re supposed to make up to people you’d plowed over. Mother’s sorry occupies two sentences: You know all that stuff that happened when you were little? I’m sorry about that. She doesn’t risk a joke, but I see mischief in her, some bemusement. It’s disarming about Mother, her ability to laugh at the wrong instant. Just stay sober, I say. Plus keep your grandson for one fucking hour without it being a federal case. It interferes with my serenity, she says. Lecia had gone through a similar fight where she’d told Mother, You don’t cook. You don’t clean. You haven’t had a job in forty years. What exactly do you bring to the party? The way Lecia told it, Mother had looked puzzled. She’d actually cocked her head like she was trying to remember her purpose on the planet and had finally, confidently, popped out with: I’m a lot of fun to be with. I remind her of that, saying, So what do I get? You’re a lot of fun to be with? Basically, she says. Or look at it this way: Maybe I left you a lot of good stories to write about. Maybe you’ll make your fortune on me. Or my misfortune. Poets don’t make fortunes. Don’t be so sure, kid. I’ve been praying about it for you. I won’t inhale and hold it, I say. You know what I pray’ll happen for you? It better involve money.

• From A Greek-English Lexicon (Liddell-Scott) (1957)

  χαλεποῖσιν ὀνείδεσι θυμὸν ἔνιπτε 3. 4383; ἐνένιπεν ὀνειδείοις ἐπέεσσιν Od. 18. 326; τὸν δ᾽ αἰσχρῶς ἐνένιπε 18. 321, οἵ. Il. 23.4733 or, simply, πόσιν δ᾽ ἠνίπαπε μύθῳ 3. 427; κραδίην ἠνίπαπε μύθῳ reproved his soul with words, Od. 20.17:—without any modal word, εἴ τίς με καὶ ἄλλος ἐνίπτοι were another to attack me, Il. 24. 768; τόν p “Ἕκτωρ ἐνένιπεν 15. 552, cf. 540; καί τίς μ᾽ ἐνίπτων εἶπε Aesch. Ag. 590; and without an acc., Od.18.78.,21.84.,24. 161 :—cf. the verbal Subst: ἐνιπή. ΤΊ: after Hom., -- ἐνέπω, to tell, announce, ἐλπίδας ἐνίπτων Pind. P. 4. 358; cf. Wern. Tryph. p. 150, Nonn. Ὁ. 27. 59. (Prob. from 4/III, ἴπ-τω (iat, tas occur in Hesych.), akin to tp, ἔπνη, imdw: hence T in ἐνιπή, ἠνίπαπε, ἐνένιπε. The usage of ἐνίπτω for ἐνέπω seems to be incorrect ; at all events, in their usual senses, the words are quite distinct, v. ἐνέπω sub fin.) ἐνισκέλλω, ἐνισκήπτω, ἐνισκίμπτω, Ep. for ἐνσ--. ἐνισόω, to make equal in, Geop. 8. 6,1; dub. ἐνισπεῖν, v. sub ἐνέπω. ἐνισπείρω, Ep. for ἐνσπη--. ἐνισπήσω, ἐνίσπω, v. sub ἐνέπω. ἐνίσσω, Ep. collat. form of ἐνίπτω, to attack, reproach, ἐκπάγλοις ἐπέ- eco. ἐνισσέμεν 1]. 15.198; ὀνειδείοισιν ἐνίσσων 22. 497; ἔπεσσ᾽ αἰσ- χροῖσιν ἐνίσσων 24. 238; but also of all usage in deed, ἔπεσίν τε κακοῖσιν ἐνίσσομεν ἠδὲ βολῇσιν maltreat him with words and blows, Od. 24.161: —Pass., ἐνισσόμενος misused, 24. 163. ἐνίστημι, Causal in pres., fut. and aor. 1 act., and in aor. I med, To put, set, place in, ἵππον ἐν λίθοις ἐνιστάναι Xen. Eq. Mag. 1,6; στήλας ἐνίστη ἐς τὰς χώρας Hdt. 2. 102; ἡνιόχον ἐνστῆσαι εἰς αὐτὴν [τὴν πόλιν] Plat. Polit. 266:Ε, cf. ἐκμάσσω ττ; τοὺς ἱπποκόμους εἰς τοὺς ἱπ- πέας ἐν. Xen. Eq. Mag. 5, 6: c. dat., ἱστὸν ἐνεστήσαντο μεσόδμῃ Ap. Rh. 1. 563. 2. in aor. 1 med., also, to begin, ὅσαι τὸ πρᾶγμα τοῦτ᾽ ἐνεστήσαντο Ar. Lys. 268; οὐδὲν πώποτε... ἐνεστήσασθε .. ὀρθῶς Dem. 137. 23 ὃ τοιοῦτον ἀγῶνα ἐνστησάμενος Id, 227. 4: ἐνστ. TO πρᾶγμα, rem instituere, Arist. Probl. 29.13, 2 ; ὀργὴν καὶ μῖσος πρός τινα ἐνστή- σασθαι to begin to shew .., Polyb. 1. 82, 9; c. inf., Diod. 14. 53. B. Pass., with aor. 2 pf., and plqpf. act. :—to be set in, to stand in, c. dat., Eur. Supp. 896; ἐν τῷ νηῷ Hdt. 2.91; absol., much like ἔνειμι, πύλαι ἐνεστέασι ἑκατόν Id. 1.179, cf. Plat. Tim. 50 D, etc. II. to be appointed, βασιλεὺς ἐνίστασθαι Hdt.1.120.,6.59; ἐν. és ἀρχήν Id. 3. 67; ἐς τυραννίδα Id. 2.147. III. to be upon, to threaten, Lat. im- minere, c. dat. pers., τοιούτων τοῖς Σπαρτιήτῃσιν ἐνεστεώτων πρηγμά- των Hdt. 1. 83; τὸν πόλεμον τὸν ἐνστάντα .. τῇ πόλει Isocr. 82 B; cf. Polyb. 1. 71, 4, Plut. Lucull. 13 :—absol. to be at hand, begin, arise, 6 τότε ἐνστὰς πόλεμος Dem. 255.10, cf. 274.6 :—esp. in part. pf. pending, present, begun, μιᾶς ἐνεστώσης δίκης Ar. Nub. 779, cf. Isae. 88. 40, Dem. 896. 29; ὁ νῦν ἐνεστηκὼς ἀγών Lycurg. 148.

• From Synanon Kid: Book One: A Memoir of Growing Up in the Synanon Cult

  They have graphic adult content.” As I watched her walk away with a stack of my books in her arms, a white-hot anger seared through me. Who does she think she is? I thought. She’s not raising me. She’s hardly even a mother. Also annoying about her was the fact that she seemed gullible at times, that she was attracted to oddball people in the commune and that she loved Sophie, whom I simply couldn’t stand. Sophie always lit up when she saw Theresa and treated her very much as a mother figure. Many years later I learned that Sophie had no parent in Synanon. She had been left as an orphan, but because most of us had so little contact with our moms and dads, Sophie’s situation had not been apparent to me. Even if it had, it’s doubtful I would have been empathetic to her plight at the time. Theresa’s marriage to Ray also put a damper on our visits. Sleepovers were eliminated because as a couple they had a room to themselves. This meant that we had little privacy in which to talk about our feelings as mother and daughter or merely to connect, without Gwyn or some other community member taking up Theresa’s personal time and attention. When I considered my future, it seemed hazy. I knew that one day soon I would be an adult, as the teen years were short in Synanon. I’d try to picture myself as a woman in the community, working somewhere; but doing what, I couldn’t imagine. How hard would it be for me to leave once I had the choice? Would I be able to survive on my own? These thoughts sometimes kept me from sleeping at night. I desperately wanted Theresa to take a stand for us, to tell Synanon goodbye. I’d imagine us moving back to Los Angeles, starting over. When I thought of my mom and me surviving as a team, I felt sure we could make it. Her marriage never crossed my mind during my fantasies. The fact that she had a husband evoked no consideration, wasn’t even an afterthought. Marriage meant little to me, just as Chuck had said years earlier in an interview in the San Raphael Journal, in which he’d suggested that divorce and remarriage was equivalent to “little more than changing one’s clothes.” My own parents had never married, and Ray was Theresa’s fourth husband. My mother’s first marriage was to a man named Rodney. Their union had been brief, and Rodney was thrown out of the commune before I arrived. I don’t think I quite grasped the fact that Theresa loved her current husband, Ray, or that he had much importance in her life as I had initially worried might be the case after the sordid demonstration with his daughter, Sara. I might have thought she would just acquire another husband once we were settled on the outside.

• From Lit: A Memoir (2009)

  It’s like owning a herd of cattle in my home state of Texas, publishing a book is. Problem three: Our landlords, the Loud Family. This time, they’re after Dev’s blue blow-up wading pool. They left a message: If there’s a yellow circle in the lawn, our security deposit must cover the cost of sodding. Sod off, I said to the answering machine, shooting it the finger, both barrels, underhanded, like pistolas from a holster. Double-dog damn them. Mr. Loud plans to spend all spring and summer painting the house. All today he stood on a ladder scraping—meticulously by hand—lead paint. Meanwhile, his old-time transistor blares the so-called easy-listening channel—zippity doo-dah for nine hours—and he’s only cleared a four-foot square, and I have to tape shut Dev’s room so no lead gets in. Mr. Loud’s bringing a boom box tomorrow, and all his Peter, Paul & Mary tapes. Do I remember Puff the Magic Dragon, he wants to know. Do I? On my fun scale, it ranks with the Nuremberg Trials. Virtually every hour, Mr. Loud trudges loudly in to pee—age maybe seventy, one plaid thermos, yet the guy pees like Niagara Falls. By dusk, he’s washing his brushes in my sink, while in my mind, I’m notching an arrow in my bow and aiming it at his ass. Problem four—minor but ongoing: I’m just a smidge further in the bag tonight than I’d planned on, which keeps happening. The yard hasn’t started to spin like a roulette wheel yet. I’m upright, but even the slightest list can set it off. Posture’s what I need, balance, like walking with a book on my head, which I always sucked at. Unless I keep that bubble exactly in the middle, the whirlies will start. Tip my head even one inch to the left, the oak tree pitches right. Unless I focus extra-hard at something close, I’ll tumble off the face of the planet, trailing puke as I fly. What helps is staring at the index finger. Just foreground it and let the rest fuzz up. I sit upright against the kitchen door, staring at my own finger like it’s the Delphic oracle. And there I sit, poised as if on a flagpole, feeling with my free hand for my drink, when the wisp of an idea trails through my head. It doesn’t last, but it’s audible: you’re the bad mom in the afterschool special, the example other moms—little parentheses drawn down around their glossy mouths—go to the principal about. Oh, horseshit, I think. Mother fell down and pissed her pants, Daddy got in fistfights and drank himself to death. (Who but a drunk, I wonder looking back, could sit on the porch alone and get in an argument?) I turned out half okay; well, a quarter—at least a tenth okay.