Excitement

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 59 of 182 · 20 per page

• From Shunned (2018)

  Ross used that time to watch sports on TV; I pulled out my laptop and composed a letter to an important client. During that day’s sermon, my mind had drifted to a complex business proposal I’d been formulating with my boss, and the perfect words to describe it had come to me. I’d written it down on the back cover of my Watchtower and was happy to have captured it in a typed document. “Excuse me,” Ross said, jolting the emergency brake, “I don’t recall anyone forcing you to work on a Sunday.” It was a conversation we’d been having with greater frequency. My work at the bank had evolved into more than just a job. The inner workings of business —at least the consumer side of finance—had been revealed to me, and I found it fascinating. I sat in on marketing meetings, where promotional storyboards were presented and ad campaigns were analyzed. I was regularly asked to weigh in on the message of these campaigns, and my clients’ feedback indicated that I had solid input to offer. There were pricing models to consider, which factored in the current cost of funds and reserves for loan loss, and I was beginning to see the bigger picture of how the ebb and flow of politics and world events impacted the economy and our profits. The term ‘prime lending rate’ on the six o’clock news held a whole new meaning. I was beginning to understand why people cared about it. Observing how my efforts made direct impact on our group’s bottom line had a visceral effect on me. Being part of a winning team was fun. Every day held something new and engaging. Our start-up initiatives were seeing impressive wins and received the adulation of the bank president. One day, John even took me along to meet the president in his marble office at the top of the bank tower. Spending ten minutes on a Sunday to write a business letter did not feel like an inconvenience to me. “Let’s drop this argument and go enjoy our friends, okay?” I said to Ross. We got out of the car and started walking in silence toward Jerry and Julia’s house. Scott was playing basketball in the driveway with eight other brothers. Standing at the foul line, he slowly bounced the ball, preparing to take a free throw. As we approached the sidewalk, Ross yelled out, “Brick!” His concentration interrupted, Scott turned and smiled. Ross handed me his car keys and wallet. “I’ll be in soon,” he said.

• From Shunned (2018)

  That week unfolded with excitement and ease. David made good on his promise, returning the contract to me within days, and our in-house risk managers supported my request for a rush review. The final contract would be ready to sign by the end of the week. Mid-Town Bank was a short walk from my apartment. I parked my car at home and floated down Clark Street toward the Friday afternoon meeting, poised and confident, breath visible with each step. The encounter went off without a hitch. Catherine and I emerged with the signed contract and a clear plan to move forward. “Cheers,” she said, raising her glass of chardonnay in the neighborhood bar where we went afterward. “I never lost faith this day would come.” We clinked glasses. I thanked her for her support and sipped my wine. I was practically levitating off the barstool with relief. The stalemate had ended. Catherine used her cell phone to share the good news with Richard, paid the tab, and departed for her long drive to the suburbs. I walked toward home along Lincoln Park West, turning back toward Clark Street in time to visit my favorite shoe boutique. I told the owner I was celebrating, and he got right into the swing of things, helping me select a new pair of pumps as my reward. It was five o’clock when I walked into my apartment, no one but my cat to party with. Richard had left a message congratulating me. The first person I called to share my good news with was Cindy. She would be assigned to manage the relationship, and we were thrilled about the chance to roll up our sleeves and work on a specific project together. She was still at the office, where a large whiteboard was kept with an ever-growing list of new sales for each month. She promised to post my win “with your name next to it, so everyone knows.” My ego loved that idea. Next, I phoned Steve. The month before, I’d sent him a birthday card as a small peace offering. I couldn’t bear the thought of losing him as a friend. He’d done so much to help me get acclimated in Chicago, and I really did care about him. Out of that gesture had come a casual dinner the week before, where we’d both admitted that friendship suited us way better than romance. He had always listened patiently to my work anxieties, and I knew he would be happy about my news. He promised to buy me dinner sometime in the next month to celebrate. “Or maybe you should pay,” he said. “You’re the one getting the big fat commission check.” And I laughed. Without the burden of romantic expectations, we were much freer with each other. So there I was, alone in my apartment. I took a long, hot shower then opened a bottle of wine.

• From Martin Luther (2016)

  It enabled him to accept the possibility of martyrdom, without embracing it as a destiny. But he also initiated an understanding of events that would brook no argument. At Worms, God’s Word had been at work, an authority that trumped all emperors and princes. Luther had appealed to the emperor against the Pope, and though he had escaped martyrdom, he had lost; now both imperial and papal power were ranged against him. On May 26, the day after the conclusion of the Diet, and when Luther had long ago left town, the emperor signed the Edict of Worms, which declared Luther an outlaw, forbade anyone to house him or eat with him, and banned the sale, reading, possession, or printing of his works. Luther had known what was coming, but he was in an exhilarated mood. Comparing his travails at Worms with Christ’s Passion and Resurrection, he had written to Cranach on April 28, two days after leaving Worms: “For a little while we must suffer and be silent. A little time, and you will not see me again; a little more time and you will see me.” 74 N O ONE WAS to know Luther’s whereabouts. After the excitement of Worms, where the great princes of the empire had lined up to meet him, where he had been surrounded by supporters and friends from dawn till dusk, and where his every word had been noted and its significance weighed, Luther was now alone. On May 4, having visited his relatives in Möhra on his way back from the Diet, Luther had been kidnapped near Burg Altenstein and brought by a circuitous route to Wartburg Castle, towering high up above Eisenach, hidden in the woods. The castle walls are hewn into the rock of the hills with views on three sides; to Luther it felt as if he were in the kingdom of the birds. The monk who was now famous throughout the empire had returned to where, as a schoolboy, he had stolen strawberries in the woods, and where his mother’s family still lived. 1 The kidnapping had been staged by the Elector, who feared the emperor’s wrath for harboring a man the Edict of Worms had now declared a “stubborn schismatic and public heretic.” 2 So he was kept in the Wartburg in disguise. Dressed in the clothes of a knight, Luther let his tonsure grow out, and was no longer clean-shaven. The figure-hugging attire, with hose designed to show off well-turned legs, fine linen shirt, doublet, and showy codpiece, must have been a shock for a monk used to wearing a shapeless woolen cassock belted at the waist. When he secretly returned to Wittenberg in December, six months later, his friends did not at first recognize him: In his riding coat he looked like a nobleman with “a thick beard over his whole mouth and cheeks.” 3 37. Lucas Cranach the Elder, Luther as Junker Jörg, 1522.

• From Lit: A Memoir (2009)

  That’s pretty much how the reading went, one balled-up page after another, mingled with lyric poems of great finish and hilarity. The audience hooted in wild and rolling waves. Guys in the front row started throwing the paper balls back, which made Knott hump even deeper in his oversize clothes as if dodging hurled tomatoes. At the end, a guy in a tie next to me said, I used to think poets shouldn’t get public grants, but this guy really can’t do anything else. When Knott left the stage, people hollered for him to come back. I sat on the hard floor almost aquiver. Writers had heretofore been mythical to me as griffins—winged, otherworldly creatures you had to conjure from the hard-to-find pages they left behind. That was partly why I’d not tried too hard to become one: it was like deciding to be a cowgirl or a maenad. In our town, the only bookstores sold gold-rimmed Bibles big as coffee tables and plastic dashboard figurines of Jesus—flaming heart all day-glo orange. Yet I’d believed—through grade school—Mother’s lie that poetry was a viable profession. As a toddler, Mother’s slate-blue volume of Shakespeare served as my booster seat, and in grade school, I memorized speeches she’d read aloud, to distract or engage her. Picture a bedridden woman with an ice pack balanced on her throbbing head while a girl—age seven, draped in a bedsheet and wearing a cardboard crown—recites Macbeth as Lady M. scrubs blood off: Out, out, damn spot… Then social mores had intervened. A distinct scene from junior high flushes vividly back. Girls sitting out of rotation volleyball in gym class stared at me all gap-mouthed when—of a rainy spring day—I spouted e. e. cummings. Through open green gym doors, sheets of rain erased the parking lot we normally stood staring at as if it were a refrigerator about to manifest food. The poem started: in Just-: spring when the world is mud- luscious… As I went on, Kitty Stanley sat cross-legged in black gym shorts and white blouse, peeling fuchsia polish off her thumbnail with a watchmaker’s precision. She was a mouth breather, Kitty, whose blond bouffant hairdo featured above her bangs a yarn bow the color of a kumquat. That it? Beverly said. Her black-lined gaze looked like an old-timey bandit mask. Indeed, I said. (This was my assholish T. S. Eliot stage circa ninth grade, when I peppered my speech with words I thought sounded British like indeed.) Is that a word, muddy delicious? Kitty said. Mud-luscious, I said. Not no real word, Beverly said, leaning back on both hands, legs crossed. I studied a volleyball arcing white across the gym ceiling and willed it to smash into Beverly’s freakishly round head. It’s squashing together luscious and lush and delicious, and all of it applied to spring mud. It’s poetic license, I said. I think it’s real smart how you learn every word so they come out any time you please, Kitty said.

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

  We stood next to some picnic benches, which were semi-protected by a canopy of thick plastic. She leaned against one of the aluminum pillars, watching me, waiting for my reaction. Leaving Synanon was a dream for most of us kids and had been a fervent wish of mine since my arrival. Many of us couldn’t wait to get out of the place. Being told that you were leaving was akin to winning a million dollars in a lottery, it was that exciting. Sue smiled so wide that her face looked like it might crack open. “How do you know this?” I asked. My heart sped up, knocking wildly against my chest, but I still didn’t trust her news. “It’s all over the place. Everyone’s talking about it. You and Sara are leaving with your parents.” I took off at a sprint for my stepsister’s room. She had moved to a cluster of smaller, wooden, cabin-like structures, each offering a rare private space and large enough for one or two residents. Many of the older kids lived there away from the larger dorms. Sara’s door stood open and I found her in the midst of packing, which consisted of grabbing whatever she saw and throwing it in a box. Several other boxes were already filled with her belongings. When I burst into her room, she glanced up and our eyes locked. “It’s true!” was all I could think to say. Sara walked to me in two strides and grabbed my hands. “We’re leaving!” she said. We threw back our heads and screamed. Then we laughed and screamed some more while we jumped around like kangaroos and then danced all over her room. I did not know what to do with myself. Hysteria, exultation poured from my lips and my limbs jerked and flapped every which way. “Come on,” Sara said. “I’m all packed. Let’s pack your stuff.” We jetted out of her door, sprinting all the way to the dorms. Once we arrived at my room, we realized that we had nothing in which to put my things. “I’ll get more boxes,” Sara offered, darting back out while I dumped everything I owned on the floor and bed. In less than an hour all my belongings were in the boxes that Sara brought back, but our packing was premature. We didn’t leave that day nor the next. Instead our parents were stuck in games in which they were scolded, berated and denigrated for their plans to depart. “Are you crazy?” their peers demanded. How could they leave Synanon for the outside world that offered nothing? Nobody cared about you on the outside, life was tough, it was hard to get by. In Synanon they had everything they needed. All their friends were here. Just what in the hell were they thinking, taking Sara and me out of such a fantastic school and exposing us to mainstream society? They were throwing their daughters to the wolves.

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

  “Me and Lacy can get a hold of some cages and a few shovels, maybe a hoe.” She wrote this down in a notebook she had on her lap, then glanced at Lacy. “We’ll be in charge of that,” Lacy said. “Spike, you’re good at catching cats; let’s capture three, maybe four of them.” “Where are you going to keep them?” I asked. “If they’re wild, they’ll just run away.” “We’re going to get extra cages for the cats,” Bear said. “Foxy, your job is to help Spike catch cats. We all need to pitch in some money for cat food too.” “We should buy the food before we catch the cats,” Spike said. “Yeah, you’re right,” Bear said. “How are we going to get a bag of cat food on the bus without anyone noticing?” I asked. “They check everything.” Bear stared at her notepad. “We’ll find a way to get around it.” Every so often we kids were taken on field trips to the Petaluma Public Library and the Alpha Beta, a supermarket. We always arrived in a yellow school bus, filling the store in our unisex outfits and military cuts, mostly unaware of the stares of other shoppers as we explored the aisles, looking for our favorite treats. When we boarded the bus to return home, we opened our bags for the driver to look inside for contraband items. Bulky cat food would definitely be a challenge. We kept the meeting short, taking a walk afterward to the secret place where we planned to have our zoo. I was surprised at how close it was to the dorms. None of us had played in the area, even though it was just a short way along a foot trail that ran mostly level and culminated in a quick, easy climb over an embankment to our spot. A small hill sloped down to a narrow clearing bordered by a thicket on one side and inlet of stream on another. Charged with the excitement of our new club, we ran down the hill, laughing, and explored everything in the vicinity. For the first few weeks we focused on preparing the area where the cages would be kept. Sticks, branches and leaves were cleared away, tarps erected and shelves made to keep supplies. Cages were set on the ground, layered with more tarps and old blankets that we brought out to line the bottoms. The tarps and the nearby thicket and overhanging trees would provide protection from the elements. Finally the day arrived for us to move the first of the animals into their new homes. These were the chickens and duck. As their baby fluff was molting and adult feathers growing in, we thought they would have a better chance of survival outside. We housed several chickens to a cage. The duck had its own home.

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

  γλαυκόομαι, Pass. to suffer from γλαύκωμα, Hipp. 102 G. The Act. in E. M. 233. 24. yAavkés, 7, ov, Acol, γλαῦκος, a, ov:—at first prob. without any γιζί --- γλάχων. notion of colour, gleaming, silvery, in Hom. only once (though he has the derivs. γλαυκιάω, —@ms) of the sea, γλαυκὴ δέ σε τίκτε θάλασσα Il. 16.34 (whence Hes. Th. 440 calls the sea simply yAaven); so in Trag., yA. λίμνη, GAs, οἶδμα, κῦμα, etc.; so also, yA. σελήνη Emped. 176; yA. dws Theocr. 16. 5; and freq. in late Ep.: also, yA. δράκων Pind. O. 8. 48, where the Schol. takes it =yAavawy, γλαυκῶπις. 11. later, certainly, with a notion of colour (κυανοῦς λευκῷ κεραννύμενος Plat. Tim. 68 C), a bluish green or gray, Lat. glaucus, of the olive, Pind. Ο. 3.23, Soph. O. C. 7o1, Eur. I. 'T. 1101, Tro. 799, etc., (cf. γχαυκό- xpoos) ; of the willow and sedge, Virg. G. 4. 182, Aen. 6. 416; in Soph. Tr. 703 also of grapes; of some precious stones, as the beryl and topaz, Dion. P. 1119 sq.; the σμάραγδος, Nonn., Plin. 2. often of the eye, light blue or gray, Lat. caesius, the lightest shade of eyes known to the Greeks, who distinguished μέλας as the darkest, then χαροπός, then γλαυκός, Arist. G. A. 5.1, 20 sq., H. A. 1. 10,1, cf. Foés. Oecon. Hipp. S.V. γλαυκώσιες : so Hdt. 4. 108 speaks of a people being γλαυκὸν ἰσχυρῶς καὶ πυρρόν, blue-eyed and red-haired, cf. Hipp. Aér. 289, Arist. Probl. 10, 11; so, yA. ᾿Αθάνα Eur. Heracl. 754, etc., cf. Philostr. 321 ; v. γλαυκῶπις :—this colour was not admired, Luc. D. Meretr. 2.1. (That γλαυκός even when applied to eyes orig. meant glaring or gleaming’, as in the Hom. γλαυκῶπις, γλαυκιάω, appears from the analogy of χαροπός (which also passed to a notion of colour), as well as from the fact that the eyes of the owl (γλαύξ) are not blue or gray. This order of senses agrees with the fact that it is radically akin to γλαύσσω -- λάμπω, γλαυσός --λαμπρός (Hesych.).) γλαῦκος, 6, an eatable fish of gray colour, Epich. 55. Ahr., Arist. H. A. 8. 30, 5, Comici ap. Ath. 295. II. in Hom. as prop. n. of a Lycian hero: proverb., ἡ Γλαύκου τέχνη of conjuring. Plat. Phaedo 108 Ὁ. γλαυκότης, nTos, ἣ, grayness, of the eyes, Arist. (5, A. 5. 1, 19, sq. γλαυκ-όφθαλμος, ov, -- γλαυκόμματος, Diosc. 1. 179. γλαυκο-χαίτηΞς, ov, 6, with grayish hair or mane, Choerob. γλαυκό-χροος, ὁ, 7, acc. γλαυκόχροα, gray-coloured, gray, of the olive, Pind. O. 3. 23; cf. γλαυκός, and Dissen ad 1. γλαυκώδης, es, (εἶδος) of the owl kind, Arist. H. A. 2. 12, 7. γλαυκ-ώλενος, ov, of Tethys, with sea-gray arms, Epigr. Gr. 1028. 58. γλαύκωμα, τό, opacity of the crystalline lens, a species of cataract (from the dull gray gleam of the eye so affected), Arist. G. A. 5. I, 28, cf. Foés. Oecon. Hipp.: v. λεύκωμα, ὑπόχυσις.

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

  ‘than the κάλαμος (Eust. Il. 1165. 23), Il. 10. 466, Od. 14. 474, ete., cf. dovaneds ; δόνακες καλάμοιο reed-stalks, h. Hom. Merc. 47. LE: 385 anything made of reed, 1. the shaft of an arrow, Il. 11. 584. 2. like otpryé, a shepherd's pipe, Pind. P. 12. 44, Aesch. Pr. 574, Theocr. 20. 29. 3. a fishing-rod or limed twig (cf. bovaxdes), Anth. P. 7. 702. 4. the bridge of the lyre, Ar. Ran. 232. TIT. a fish, Ξ- σωλήν, ap. Ath. go D. Sovew, fut. aw, to shake, of the effects of the wind, τὸ δέ τε πνοιαὶ dovéovow they shake the young tree, 1]. 17. 55; ἄνεμος .. νέφεα σκιόεντα δονήσας having driven them, 12.157; ὃ. γάλα, to shake it, as to make butter, Hdt. 4.2; δ. ἄκοντα Pind. P. 1.85. 2.. to drive about, τὰς... οἷ- στρος... ἐδόνησεν (sc. Tas Boas) Od. 22. 300 :—hence of love, to agitate, excite, Sappho, Ar. Eccl. 954; and of any passion, Pind. P. 4. 390., 6. 26; ὀσμὴ .. μυκτῆρα dove’ Mnesim. Ἵπποτρ. 1. 60:—Pass., ἡ ᾿Ασίη ἐδονέετο Asia was in commotion, Hdt.7.1; πελέπεσσι δονεῖσθαι Corinna 18: fut. med. in pass. sense, Gppata καλὰ δονήσεται h. Hom. Ap. 270. IL. of sound, 6. θρόον ὕμνων to rouse the voice of song, Pind. N. 7. 119; λυρᾶν Boal καναχαί 7 αὐλῶν δονέονται Id. P. το. 60; δεδόναᾶτο Theocr. 13. 65, cf. 24. 885; αἰθὴρ δονεῖται Ar. Ay. 1183.— Poét. word, used in Ion. and late Prose ;—in Xen. Symp. 2, ὃ, Dind, re- stores δινουμένους. δόνημα, τό, an agitation, waving, δένδρου Luc. Salt. 19. δονητός, 7, bv, shaken, Byz.

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

  Up, excite, πολλά TE μιν καὶ μεγάλα τὰ ἐπαείροντα. HY Hat. I. 204; τίς σ᾽ ἐπῆρε δαιμόνων; Soph. O. T. 1328; πέρα τοῦ καιροῦ τοὺς ἑτέρους ἔπ. Dem. 208.6; ἐπ. θυμόν τινι Eur. i A. 1253 τοῦτό σε ψυχήν ἐπαίρει Id. Heracl. 172 :—to induce ot persuade to do, ὃ: inf., εἰρωτᾶν εἰ οὔτι αἰσχύνεται ἐπάρας Ἰζροῖσον στρατεύεσθαι Hdt. 1.90; ἥτις με rhe ἐπῆρε Ar. Nub. 42, cf. Ran. 1041; ἐπ. τινὰ wore .., Eur. Supp. 581; ὅστις μ᾽ ἐπάρας ἔργον (sc. πρᾶξαι) Id. Or. 286 :—Pass. "to be roused, led on, ex- cited, τῷ μαντηΐῳ Hdt. τ. 90. cf. 5.913 τοῖς δωρήμασι 7.38; πλούτῳ, τιμῇ Plat. Rep. 434 A, ύοϑ Β ; ὑπὸ λόγων Ατ. ee 1448; τοῖς λόγοις Thuc. 4. 2: δεινότητι καὶ ξυνέσεως ἀγῶνι Τά. 2.37; ὑπὸ μισθοῦ Id. 7. 13; ἐπ. ἐς τὸ νεωτερίζειν Id. 4. 108; and inf, ΠΣ ΠΩΣ γράψαι Isocr. 84 Ὁ, cf. Plat. Phaedr. 232 A. 2. in Pass., also, to be elated ata thing, εὐδαιμονίῃ μεγάλῃ Hat. 5.81; ψυχρῇ νίκῃ 9. 40, cf. 1.:.212.: 2:|130: ἔν τινι Thuc. 4. 18; ἐπί τινι Xen. Mem. 1. 2,255 πρός τὶ Thue. 6. 11. 8. 2; ἔμ τινος Polyb. I. 29, 4; also, Ἑλλὰς τῇ ὁρμῇ ἐπῆρται is on the tiptoe of expectation, Thuc. 2. 11 :—absol. to be conceited or proud, Ar. Nub. 810; passionate, Plut. Cic. 25, etc. ἐπαισθάνομαι, fut. ταισθήσομαι: Dep.:—to have a perception or feeling φῇ, c. gen. objecti, μῶν ᾿δυσσέως ἐπῃσθόμην Soph. Ph. 1296; ὀμφῆς τῆς ἐμῆς Id. O. C. 1351, cf. Ant. 1183. 2. c. acc. to perceive, Aesch. Ag. 85, Soph. Aj. 553, Dem. 24. 4, etc.; τὸν σὸν μόρον ἐπ. to hear of it, Soph. Aj. 996; c. part., ἐπήσθετ᾽ ee θεοῦ καλούμενος Id. oO. C. 1629; ἡσθέντα δ᾽ αὐτὸν ὡς ἐπῃσθόμην Eur. Cycl. 42ο. iS: absol. to become sensible. recover one’s senses, Hipp. 490. ἐπαίσθημα, τό. a perception, Epicur. ap. Diog. L. Io. 32. ἐπαίσθησιο, ews, 7, perception, sense, Epicur. ap. Diog. L. to. 52. ’ » ἐπαίνημι — ἔπακμος.

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

  Once we had the food, Spike and I were ready to capture the cats. We’d seen a young tabby hanging around the bushes along our walk from the dorms to the Shed. Though not as wild as some of the other feral cats, the tabby was still skittish. Over the weekend we decided to catch the tabby. We saved bits of chicken in our napkins from lunch and shoved the greasy lumps of paper in our pockets. We gathered twine, a cardboard box and one of the metal cages from the zoo. Spike made a hole in the side of the cardboard box and tied the twine at that hole. We deposited the bits of chicken on a somewhat protected area of dusty ground not too far out in the open and set the cardboard box on its side, near our bait. Satisfied with our preparations, we hid as best we could in the bushes, lying on our bellies a short distance from our trap for a good half hour until Spike gave me a little pinch. Something was stealthily creeping through the bushes next to us. A moment later we saw not the tabby we had been expecting, but a gray cat stretching its neck, sniffing at the air. We waited for what seemed like slow minutes before it finally crept inch by inch toward the meat. Spike’s fingers tightened on the string, her face and eyes firmly set in full concentration. The cat was now almost upon the chunks of chicken, its neck stretched as far as possible from the rest of its body. I’m not sure what caused it to look in our direction, but the wary gaze of the green eyes caught sight of us. The cat froze. After a long minute it sniffed at the meat again before it made up its mind to go for it. As soon as it was crouched over the chicken pieces, Spike pulled the string. The box slammed down. Silence followed, then one plaintive meow. We jumped up, excited to have our first catch. “Okay, you lift the box,” Spike ordered, “and I’ll grab the cat and put it in the cage.” “Ready?” I asked. Spike hovered over the box. “Go!” she said. As I lifted the box, her hand shot down, grabbing the cat by the scruff of its neck. The creature fairly exploded into a bristle of gray fur that stood erect all over its body, claws ejected from the padded feet, lips receded so far off the teeth that the cat looked like a face of fangs with popping eyes. It made loud hissing noises and tried to flip itself to get at Spike’s face, but she managed to keep the writhing ball of fury at arms’ length and shoved it in the cage. I reached over and shut the door. The cat flung itself against the bars, hissing and yowling.

• From The Things They Carried (1990)

  casualties came in, Mary Anne wasn't afraid to get her hands bloody. At times, in fact, she seemed fascinated by it. Not the gore so much, but the adrenaline buzz that went with the job, that quick hot rush in your veins when the choppers settled down and you had to do things fast and right. No time for sorting through options, no thinking at all; you just stuck your hands in and started plugging up holes. She was quiet and steady. She didn't back off from the ugly cases. Over the next day or two, as more casualties trickled in, she learned how to clip an artery and pump up a plastic splint and shoot in morphine. In times of action her face took on a sudden new composure, almost serene, the fuzzy blue eyes narrowing into a tight, intelligent focus. Mark Fossie would grin at this. He was proud, yes, but also amazed. A different person, it seemed, and he wasn't sure what to make of it. Other things, too. The way she quickly fell into the habits of the bush. No cosmetics, no fingernail filing. She stopped wearing jewelry, cut her hair short and wrapped it in a dark green bandanna. Hygiene became a matter of small consequence. In her second week Eddie Diamond taught her how to disassemble an M-16, how the various parts worked, and from there it was a natural progression to learning how to use the weapon. For hours at a time she plunked away at C-ration cans, a bit unsure of herself, but as it turned out she had a real knack for it. There was a new confidence in her voice, a new authority in the way she carried herself. In many ways she remained naive and immature, still a kid, but Cleveland Heights now seemed very far away. Once or twice, gently, Mark Fossie suggested that 1t might be time to think about heading home, but Mary Anne laughed and told him to forget it. "Everything I want," she said, "is right here." She stroked his arm, and then kissed him. On one level things remained the same between them. They slept together. They held hands and made plans for after the war. But now there was a new imprecision in the way Mary Anne expressed her thoughts on certain subjects. Not necessarily three kids, she'd say. Not necessarily a house on Lake Erie. "Naturally we'll still get married," she'd tell him, "but it doesn't have to be right away. Maybe travel first. Maybe live together. Just test it out, you know?"

• From The Things They Carried (1990)

  "Straight on. It's a fact." Rat's voice squeaked a little. He paused and looked at his hands. "Listen, the guy sends her the money. Flies her over. This cute blonde—just a kid, just barely out of high school—she shows up with a suitcase and one of those plastic cosmetic bags. Comes right out to the boonies. I swear to God, man, she's got on culottes. White culottes and this sexy pink sweater. There she is." I remember Mitchell Sanders folding his arms. He looked over at me for a second, not quite grinning, not saying a word, but I could read the amusement in his eyes. Rat saw it, too. "No lie," he muttered. "Culottes." When he first arrived in-country, before joining Alpha Company, Rat had been assigned to a small medical detachment up in the mountains west of Chu Lai, near the village of Tra Bong, where along with eight other enlisted men he ran an aid station that provided basic emergency and trauma care. Casualties were flown in by helicopter, stabilized, then shipped out to hospitals in Chu Lai or Danang. It was gory work, Rat said, but predictable. Amputations, mostly—legs and feet. The area was heavily mined, thick with Bouncing Betties and homemade booby traps. For a medic, though, it was ideal duty, and Rat counted himself lucky. There was plenty of cold beer, three hot meals a day, a tin roof over his head. No humping at all. No officers, either. You could let your hair grow, he said, and you didn't have to polish your boots or snap off salutes or put up with the usual rear-echelon nonsense. The highest ranking NCO was an E-6 named Eddie Diamond, whose pleasures ran from dope to Darvon, and except for a rare field inspection there was no such thing as military discipline. As Rat described it, the compound was situated at the top of a flat- crested hill along the northern outskirts of Tra Bong. At one end was a small dirt helipad; at the other end, in a rough semicircle, the mess hall and medical hootches overlooked a river called the Song Tra Bong. Surrounding the place were tangled rolls of concertina wire, with bunkers and reinforced firing positions at staggered intervals, and base security was provided by a mixed unit of RFs, PFs, and ARVN infantry. Which is to say virtually no

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

  Righting the box, I placed the cat inside it and walked away, not looking back. Chapter Twenty-ThreeA Secret Zoo “Hey,” Melissa said. I lifted my chin. I’d been lounging against an apple tree in the small orchard next to our dorms, watching her head toward me. Tall for her age, she took long strides, her usual dreamy expression out of synch with her habitual swift gait. Mentally, she always seemed to be somewhere else, her brown bushy brows creased in thought. She eyed me for a minute, then said, “I’m starting a secret club.” “Yeah?” “It’s for ugly girls. There’s three of us so far, and I wanted to ask you to join. You’re the ugliest one in the whole school, and I thought you should be in it.” There was no malice to her words, and I wasn’t offended. I’d been told how ugly I was almost every day by one kid or another and had accepted it to be true. In my view, Melissa was stating a fact. “Who’s in it?” I asked. “Me, Laurie and Lacy.” Lacy was a dour, heavyset girl, one of the few kids who had a weight problem despite the active lifestyle of Synanon. She could be a bit snippy, and I didn’t particularly care to be around her, but the club idea intrigued me as did the fact that Laurie had said she’d join it. A lot of the kids had been starting clubs. One girl had started one called Butterballs, a group for kids who were struggling with their weight. “We’re going to have our own zoo,” Melissa said. “What kind of animals are you going to keep?” I asked. “Some of us just got some baby chicks and a duckling and we were thinking of catching some cats and taming them.” Her green eyes locked with mine. Now I knew why the club was a secret. “If the demonstrators find out, they’ll take them and kill them,” I said. “I know,” Melissa said, “but they won’t find out. We found a place that nobody knows about. That’s where we’ll keep all the animals.” She waited, letting me mull it over. “Okay,” I said. Melissa grinned, flashing her long sharp incisors, and slapped my back. “Thanks,” she said. “I thought I could count on you. It wouldn’t be right if you weren’t in it. We’re all picking code names. Laurie’s going to be Spike. I’m Bear. Lacy’s still deciding. I thought maybe you could be Foxy.” “Yeah, okay.” My code name meant little to me. Later that day the four of us met in Melissa’s (Bear’s) room to brainstorm about how we would start the zoo. We discovered that among us we owned six chickens, one duck and zero cats. It was clear from the start that Bear was the leader. “We need to work on clearing the area and getting it ready for the animals,” she said.

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

  “When we let the water in the sink run and we’re not using it.” “What else?” the man asked. “Leaving the lights on,” a girl said softly. “Yes. Yes. Whaddaya say we write a song about it? Who would like to write a song about the environment?” Some of the kids, including me, perked up. Writing a song seemed like it might be fun. The man strummed a few chords and hummed to himself. “Let’s see, what should we say?” “People all around wasting energy!” one of the kids yelled. “That’s good.” The man hummed a little more to himself. After a few moments, his voice piped out, “Wake up! What do you see? People all around wasting energy.” The boy who’d suggested the line bounced on his knees, grinning. “What else?” the man said. Keith moved quietly for the door, applying more ChapStick. He exited the room just as several kids called out their ideas for the song. In the end, we came up with: Wake up! What do you see! People all around wasting energy. Double it up, the temperature’s down. Time to get up and turn it around. Hey, hey, hey, how much have we saved today? Hey, hey, hey, I know we’re going to find a way. I know we’re going to find a way. We sang the song over and over. A few hours later, we filed out of the room, remembering to keep silent on our walk back to the bunkhouses for our drill on hygiene. Some of us girls were directed to the larger communal bathroom where we usually showered after physical education. Our group was greeted by a naked young woman. She instructed us to strip and step into the large shower stall. We padded onto the damp tiled floor. “Is everyone here?” she asked. We turned our heads, looking around. “Yes,” a few of us replied. “The two-minute shower,” she said as if she were announcing the title of a book she was about to read aloud. “Watch carefully. First, you wet down.” She pulled up the metal shower handle, releasing a warm stream of water over herself and turning her body until she was completely wet. Then she snapped down the handle, shutting off the water. “Next, we soap.” Grabbing a bar of soap, she lathered it between her palms, the suds bubbling and dripping down her slick wet legs and feet. Quickly, she ran the soap over her body, missing nothing. She lifted her large pendulous breasts, scrubbing the skin under them. She opened her thick muscular legs while her busy hand raked the soap over her vagina, pushing aside the folds to get into the smaller areas with a finger. Next the backside was attacked and last the head and face lathered. She set aside the soap, turned on the water and rinsed. “Two minutes. No more, no less. Your turn.” Under her scrutinizing gaze, we did as instructed.

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

  As much as I loved to play with dolls and pretend to be a mother, I also learned to enjoy climbing trees and hunting for snakes. I thrilled in the freedom of riding my bike full speed down steep hills with my hands off the handlebars. I came to realize I was naturally strong, so I liked to arm-wrestle, challenging anyone who might accept. Whenever I was asked what I wanted to be when I grew up, I would announce proudly, “A man. A big tall man.” This did not seem impossible. Reality in my short life was so warped that it seemed anything could happen. “Where is your belt?” It was dinnertime, and I stood before the door of the Commons, waiting for the demonstrator to give the okay that I could enter. She stood with folded arms, studying me from head to toe. My clothes were clean; my shoes not terribly scuffed up. There were no stains anywhere; however, I had not thought to wear a belt, nor did I remember being told that I must. I looked at my jeans and the empty loops around my waist. I wasn’t sure where my belt was or if I even had one. I didn’t recall having seen one in my wardrobe. Every week I stood in line with other children to receive my allotment of clothing. “Size?” a demonstrator would ask. “Seven.” A stack of white t-shirts and mix of dark blue jeans and overalls would be placed in my hands from the size seven shelf. Sometimes I received an overall dress. Many of the children and adults possessed wide, brown leather belts with enormous brass buckles. Some adults wore a silver dollar as a centerpiece in their buckles. It was a popular style. “You cannot come into dinner without a belt,” the demonstrator said. “Go and get it.” I stepped away from the building, watching other kids file through the doorway, my stomach grumbling. “What are you doing?” I looked up to see Laurie standing before me. “I can’t go into dinner,” I said. “Why?” “I don’t have a belt.” “Did you lose it?” I shrugged, not sure. I was never really sure of anything anymore, and this situation was not the first time I’d dealt with arbitrary rules. Once a demonstrator had banned me from coming into my dorm in the evening because I wore nail polish. I did not know that nail polish was banned because we had acquired it from the staff in the first place. The polish remover was kept in the bathroom. I had had no choice that night but to stand in the muted light of the entryway for over an hour gnawing the polish off my nails. Laurie peered behind some bushes. She wore her favorite cowboy hat and brown cowboy boots, presents from someone. Legs slightly bowed and sturdy in her dark blue jeans, she bent over to sweep her hand under a hedge.

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

  Chapter Twenty-SevenL ost For years I had a recurring dream in which I was a prima ballerina dancing majestically on stage before a large, adoring audience. I’d leap through the air, my legs spread in a grand jete, or I’d twirl in endless pirouettes and at the end of the performance the audience would throw flowers to me, their applause thunderous. Whenever I had one of these dreams, I’d talk to any demonstrator, who’d listen about the possibility of having ballet lessons in the school. Therefore, I was pleasantly surprised when one day it was announced to me and a few other girls that we had been chosen to take ballet lessons in San Francisco. The lessons were to take place once a week on Mondays. Since San Francisco was a good hour away, we had to wake up at four and be ready to board the 5 a.m. jitney that would take us to the Synanon property where our lessons would take place. A massive structure encompassing a whole city block, the Synanon house of San Francisco had been obtained as a donation from the National Lead Company. It housed many residents and for a time was one of several main business hubs of the Synanon organization. Boasting a sweeping carpeted foyer, long narrow hallways and old rickety elevators that transferred residents between multiple floors, it was to us children a treasure trove of adventure and endless exploration. On our first morning we were ushered into the dance room to meet our ballet teacher, a young woman with a quality of patience exhibited by very few of our Synanon demonstrators. The floor of the large room was carpeted instead of wooden; there was no barre and only a single rectangular mirror, propped against the wall. I was too excited about the lessons to care that it was not a real ballet room. Maybe the room would be altered later. “I already know how to spin like a ballerina,” I told our teacher as soon as our small group filed into the room. I followed my words with several turns, spinning as fast as I could. “What do you think?” I asked, swaying slightly. “Very good,” she said. The other girls silently absorbed this scene. I had no idea whether they wanted to learn ballet or not. Lacy and Melissa, my friends from the secret club, were among them. Lacy, tall and thick, and Melissa, even taller, were both aged twelve and unlikely candidates for a ballet class. But that didn’t matter. Leaving the Walker Creek property once a week to come to San Francisco was more than reason enough for taking ballet lessons. As the only animated student in the class, I inspired our teacher to begin our first lesson with learning to spot our turns. To demonstrate, she showed us how to prepare a turn.

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

  boots, and long hair parted in the middle or curly hair proudly worn with a headband. We entered through the kitchen. I was excited to see a full spread of food. Chicken, ham, rice, pasta, bread, butter, a cheese platter, salad, wine, juice, loaf cake, and several varieties of cookies were clustered on the kitchen counter, and a round dinner table was stacked with paper plates and plastic utensils. “Help yourself,” one of the women said, touching my back lightly with the palm of her hand and smiling warmly at me. I picked up a plate and immediately loaded it with everything there. At eleven, I always had an appetite. We had arrived late and our hosts had already eaten, but they waited patiently while we served ourselves dinner before inviting us to join them in the living room. Again, we sat in a circle on the floor. One of the men formally welcomed us, inquired about our drive, and asked if we had run into any problems finding them. Ray enthusiastically began to talk about the windy road and made jokes about how slow we had to go. This emitted polite laughter, followed by introductions, as we all took turns to say our names and a little about ourselves. Once the introductions were over, I tucked into my dinner, blocking out most of the rest of the adult conversation, which centered on spiritual beliefs and the University guru, Christopher Hills. A few hours later we said our goodbyes. “So if we joined them, we could live in our own house?” Sara asked as we walked to our car. My ears perked up. During the University of the Trees gathering, I’d done what I always did in meetings––daydream. As a result, I’d missed that important bit of information. “Yes!” Ray said. He smiled at Theresa and put his arm around her. “See, isn’t this nice?” “I liked them very much,” Theresa acknowledged. “But I still want to visit the Summit Lighthouse.” “Of course. I’m only saying that University of the Trees is definitely

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

  theater props and brought out only for performances. Traipsing through the store, I could hardly contain my excitement. We garnered curious stares from the employees and customers, but I didn’t care. I was only nine and could still easily pass for a boy, but Lacy and Melissa had obvious breasts and feminine figures. Our boyish hair- cuts were the polar opposite of the long hair that women wore in the late 1970s. Even the men wore their hair long. I passed one mannequin head after another, searching for the wig I wanted to try on, the one with the longest, straightest hair. Melissa put on a wig in the popular feathered hairstyle of the day and stood before one of the full-length mirrors, admiring herself. I spotted a foam head adorned with two long braids, a style I had often worn before coming to Synanon. I grabbed the wig, placed it on my head and then dashed to the closest mirror. A different child stared back at me. I looked like a girl, a real girl. I was even pretty. I couldn’t believe it. A saleswoman, who seemed to materialize out of nowhere, tapped me on the shoulder. “Excuse me. Where are your parents?” I looked up at her. She stood waiting with folded arms. “I don’t have any parents,” I said. “I came here with my friends.” I pointed to the hulkish form of Lacy still browsing the wigs and Melissa removing the feathered tresses from her own military cut. “You girls?” The saleswoman glanced at Lacy and Melissa again. “You are going to have to leave. You need to be here with an adult.” I didn’t want to take off the wig. I glanced once more at myself in the mirror before I removed the hair and handed it to the woman, who took it from me. Her lips twisted as though she had tasted something sour as she returned the wig to the mannequin head. We left the shop and continued our wanderings to the piers shrouded by hazy sea air. Hungry, we purchased corn dogs and big, soft, salty pretzels. After lunch we decided it was time to head back. Lacy scratched her chin. “Do either of you know the way back? I

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

  δρμάω, fut. yow, Att.: aor. ὥρμησα 1]., Att., Lacon. imper. ὅρμᾶον (?) Ar. Lys. 1247: pf. ὥρμηκα Plat. Polit. 264 Ε :—Med. and Pass., often in Att., Ep. impf. ὡρμᾶτο Il. 3. 142: fut. ὁρμήσαμαι Hdt., Xen., ὁρμηθή- σομαι Galen. :—aor. ὡρμησάμην Il. 21. 595, Hes. Sc. 127 (€p—), never in Prose, excepting ἐξ-- Xen. Hell. 6. 5, 20; more commonly in pass. form ὡρμήθην Hom, and Att. :—pf. ὥρμημαι Soph. El. 70, Eur., Thuc., etc., Ton. 3 pl. pf. and plqpf. ὡρμέαται and —éaro Hadt. (with v. 11. 6py—) ; in Hom. the Edd. retain the augm.: (ὁρμήν): A. Act., I. Causal, zo set in motion, to urge on, prick, spur, cheer on, τινα εἰς πόλεμον Il. 6. 338, Thuc. 1.127; τινα ποτὶ κλέος Pind. O. το. 24; τὸ στρά- τευμα opp. ἐπὶ τὰς ᾿Αθήνας Hat. 8. 106; cf. Soph. Aj. 175, Eur. Or. 352; ἡ φύσις ὁρμᾷ τινα ἐπὶ πλεονεξίαν Plat. Legg. 875 B, cf.1on 534C; opp. μέριμναν eis ἔργον Eur. Phoen. 1063; dpy. τινὰ ἐκ χερός to tear from one’s hand, Id. Hec. 145 :—Pass., ὁρμηθεὶς θεοῦ ἤρχετο inspired by the god he began (not θεοῦ ἤρχετο), Od. 8. 499 ; so, πρὸς θεῶν ὡρμημένος Soph. El. 70; ὑπὸ ἔρωτος Plat. Symp. 181 D; ἵπποι... ὁρμηθέντες ὑπὸ πληγῇσιν ἱμάσθλης urged on by .., Od. 13. 82. 2. with a thing as the object, zo stir up, πόλεμον Od. 18. 376; c. acc. et inf., τὰς διόδους τῶν πτερῶν .. ὥρμησε πτεροφυεῖν Plat. Phaedr. 255 Ὁ :—Pass., ὡρμάθη πλαγά was inflicted, Soph. El. 198. II. more commonly intr. to make a start, hasten on, 1. c. inf., ipnt ds ὁρμήσῃ διώκειν ὄρνεον ἄλλο starts in chase of. . , 11.13.64, (for which, 62, he had ὦρτο πέτεσθαι); ὁσσάκι δ᾽ ὁρμήσειε πυλάων... ἀντίον ἀΐξασθαι whenever he started to tush at the gates, made an effort at them, 22. 194; ὁσσάκι δ᾽ ὁρμήσειε .. στῆναι ἐναντίβιον 31. 265; ἐξελαύνειν ὁρμῆσαι τὸν στρατόν began to lead ουξ.., Hdt. 1. 76, cf. 7. 150; νίκην ὁρμῶν ἀλαλάξαι eager to .., Soph. Ant. 133; ὥρμα ἀντιλαμβάνεσθαι Plat. Rep. 336 B. 2). Ὁ: gen. to rush headlong at one, Τρώων Il. 4. 335; $0, more commonly with Preps., 6. ἐπί τινα Hes. Sc. 403, Hdt. 1. 1, etc.; ἐπὶ πύργωμα Eur. Supp. 1220; εἴς twa Xen. Cyr. 7. 1, 17; κατά τινα Id, An. 5. 7, 25:— also, opp. ἐς μάχην to hasten to battle, Aesch. Pers. 394; εἰς ἀγῶνα Eur. Phoen. 259 ; εἰς τὸ διώκειν Xen. An. 1. 8, 25; ἐπὶ ἁρπαγάς Plat. Rep. 391 D; ἐπὶ τραγῳδίαν Alex. AcB. τ. 14; πρός τι Arist. H. A. 5. 14, 21, al.:—also without any sense of hostility, 20 hasten on, ὁρμᾶν ἀπὸ τόπου, just like ὁρμᾶσθαι éx .. (v. infr.), Eur. Supp. ΤΟΙ 5, Thuc. 2. 19; ἐς φυγήν Hdt. 7. 179, etc.; εἰς τὸ ἐπέκεινα τῆς γῆς Plat. Phaedo 112 : én ἄλλον λόγον Antipho 124. 24; ἐπὶ τὸ σκοπεῖν Xen. Mem. 3. 7,

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

  a sweeping carpeted foyer, long narrow hallways and old rickety elevators that transferred residents between multiple floors, it was to us children a treasure trove of adventure and endless exploration. On our first morning we were ushered into the dance room to meet our ballet teacher, a young woman with a quality of patience exhibited by very few of our Synanon demonstrators. The floor of the large room was carpeted instead of wooden; there was no barre and only a single rectangular mirror, propped against the wall. I was too excited about the lessons to care that it was not a real ballet room. Maybe the room would be altered later. “I already know how to spin like a ballerina,” I told our teacher as soon as our small group filed into the room. I followed my words with several turns, spinning as fast as I could. “What do you think?” I asked, swaying slightly. “Very good,” she said. The other girls silently absorbed this scene. I had no idea whether they wanted to learn ballet or not. Lacy and Melissa, my friends from the secret club, were among them. Lacy, tall and thick, and Melissa, even taller, were both aged twelve and unlikely candidates for a ballet class. But that didn’t matter. Leaving the Walker Creek property once a week to come to San Francisco was more than reason enough for taking ballet lessons. As the only animated student in the class, I inspired our teacher to begin our first lesson with learning to spot our turns. To demonstrate, she showed us how to prepare a turn. Placing one leg in the bent position of a plie and extending the other in front of her in a tendu, she held her arms in a similar fashion, one rounded in, the other extended to the side. “The trick is to find something across the room to focus on. With every turn, your eyes should always remain on your chosen object. Like this.” She began a series of turns in perfect symmetry on the diagonal across the room, her movements so quick they were just a blur. I was hooked.