Joy

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.

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

  In the distance I saw a familiar figure. I stopped, squinting into the sunlight, unsure. The woman walked toward me, but didn’t seem to notice me. I tried to make out her features. Was she my mom? I called out, “Theresa!” to her and waved. She still didn’t see me, but she heard my greeting because she hesitated, looking around and over her shoulder. I waved again. Finally she saw me and waved back with such enthusiasm that I knew she must be Theresa. I ran to her, hindered by the giant doll banging against my legs and threw myself into my mother’s open arms. We embraced and I felt I might explode with the kind of joy a child feels when she’s awakened to find Christmas has arrived with all its pleasures. “I got your present,” I said, once she had released me. “It is not from me, sweetheart. It’s from Grandma.” “Oh!” I felt even happier to know that other people in my family knew where I was, that I hadn’t been forgotten. Kneeling, Theresa took my hand, her greenish eyes assessing me. “Isn’t it funny,” she said, “that we ran into each other when I was on my way to come visit you? We have the whole day together, just you and me. Where were you going?” “To breakfast.” “Would you like to come and have breakfast with me in the Shed?” I nodded, excited to be with my real mom and eat at the buffet-style setup where I could choose what I wanted instead of the usual powdered milk and soupy scrambled eggs with toast served in the Commons. The Shed, a large block building with corrugated metal siding, housed the adult dining room. It was a sprawling space divided into smaller sections that were reserved for VIPs, who dined at round, café-style tables draped with tablecloths and set with linen napkins and sometimes fresh flowers or candles as the centerpiece. Everyone else ate in the larger dining hall at long, plain wooden tables that seated four or more people. “How do you like the school?” Theresa asked while I walk-skipped alongside her. “I want to live with you,” I said. “That would be fun, wouldn’t it?” She stopped and looked around. We were alone on the country road, which ran through the center of the property, yet Theresa lowered her voice. “I’m working on trying to come here and be a demonstrator in the school. Then we could see each other every day. Wouldn’t that be nice?” “Yes. But when are we leaving?” Naively, I thought the long strange visit was now coming to an end. She laughed and hugged me to her. “When we’re finished eating, I have a surprise for you.” In the Shed, we each took a plate from the stack of dishes ready for use by the buffet and served ourselves. We sat at one of the long wooden tables.

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

  Once I was astride, she handed me the grain bucket and climbed up behind me using the foot stirrup. From this position she was able to get another horse close enough to transfer herself to its back. “Just give him a little kick; he knows where to go. The others will follow,” she said. I did as instructed. My horse began to walk, but soon set off into a gallop with Spike riding alongside me. I thought of Laura Ingalls, riding free in the prairie lands a hundred years ago, as Spike and I smiled at each other and laughed at the exhilaration of moving at such speed atop these tremendously powerful creatures with nothing in sight except the hills of golden grass and blue sky above. “What the children need is love.” These words were boldly stated by a short, slim woman who began to show up at the school on a regular basis. Her name was Pilar, and she was the mother of five children in the school. Pilar was not like the other adults. She dressed all in black: black stretch pants, black Kung Fu jacket and black Chinese slippers. She showed up with a cloth bag full of massage equipment slung over her shoulder, herded any kids she could find into the Commons and told us to sit on the floor. Then she pulled out strange-looking contraptions. Into the hands of one child she placed a foot roller. Another received a neck roller. Still another got a giant vibrating massager. She then gave impromptu instructions, showing us how to use the equipment and pairing us up to massage each other’s feet, neck and back. I loved when Pilar came around. She was terrifically odd and apparently had some clout over the demonstrators, who listened to her when she gave suggestions. Pilar’s campaign to incorporate physical affection in the form of nurturing touch evolved into a twice-weekly bedtime routine of massage. Demonstrators on shift for the evening went from room to room offering a back massage or tickle before sleep. I’d always opt for the tickle, lying in bliss as fingers slowly and lightly ran over my skin for three to five minutes. Pilar, I soon learned, was another close friend of Theresa’s. One evening Pilar invited me to sleep over in her room, where we had tea and she asked me questions about the school and how I was getting along there. It was the first time since I’d come to Synanon that an adult other than Theresa took a genuine interest in me. Later that evening, Pilar gave me two children’s books. “This is a book about Frederick Douglass, and this one’s about Harriett Tubman. Have you heard of them?” I examined the cover of one of the books. A stern-faced black man, with a shock of white, cotton candy–textured hair in an old-fashioned dark suit, gazed back at me. The other cover depicted people huddled in the dark, apparently hiding out, escaping from somewhere.

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

  Each of us was guided to a full-length mirror, where we were instructed to gaze upon our “extraordinary beauty.” After two excruciating hours we finally said goodbye to our hosts. When we filed out of the building, the sun sat low in the sky. “Wait, wait,” the demonstrators called, gathering together our rapidly dispersing group. “We’re going to take a group picture before you return to the dorms.” Huddled with my peers before the majestic facade of the Big House, I squinted into the light of the setting sun, focusing on the hills that hugged the property. Orange and gold spilled across the great expanse of earth, setting the long dry grass afire with liquid color melting into darkness. A cold breeze ruffled my dress.. “Smile! You are Synanon girls!” Hearing the click of the camera, I closed my eyes. Chapter Twenty-TwoW ildlife I slapped the cow’s backside, her bony shanks rising up from her deep sway back. Her head swung around and she gave a low moan, pushing air through her large nostrils as she turned in my direction. She was too slow. I’d already jumped out of her reach, laughing and dancing before her. She charged toward me, her groaning moo more angry. She’d taken only several steps when one of the boys ran up behind her, slapping her rump. This brought her to a halt and then a change of direction as, disoriented, she ran toward no one. We howled with laughter, calling out to get the cow’s attention. She was an older, dimwitted animal that sometimes wandered through the courtyard of our dormitory buildings. Often she was slow-moving, but sometimes she broke into a hot rage and began charging us. We’d dash to one side then the other as she swung her neck, mooing and running a few steps here, a few steps there. We’d tease her until the demonstrators caught sight of us and put a stop to this cruel activity, shooing us inside. One day the mad cow disappeared. Perhaps she was put down for our safety. A large variety of creatures lived on the Walker Creek property: horses, cattle, sheep, pigs and a small zoo composed of rabbits and chickens, which we were allowed to keep as pets. There were two blue heelers, Bob and Jody. They were often engaged in activities required of working ranch dogs, such as rounding up sheep and cattle. There were scores of cats, most of them feral, a few tame enough for petting. Amphibians and reptiles, especially snakes with sleek colorful bodies, fascinated me. In the process of capturing a snake, I’d put up with the tarry poop it ejected, accepting that my hands would smell like burnt rubber for several days for the thrill of keeping it in a makeshift terrarium I’d made out of an old fish tank.

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

  ἀπόλαυσις, ews, 4, the act of enjoying, enjoyment, fruition, Thuc. 2. 38. II. the result of enjoying, enjoyment, pleasure, ai ἀπ. ai σωματικαί Arist. Pol. 5.11, 23, cf. Eth. N. 7. 4, 23; 6 κατ᾽ ἀπόλαυσιν Bios a life of pleasure, Id. Top. 1. 5, 9, etc. 2. c. gen. the advan- tage got froma thing, σίτων καὶ ποτῶν Xen. Mem. 2.1, 33, cf. Hipp. Vet. Med. 12; ἀγαθῶν Isocr. 7 E; ἀπόλαυσιν εἰκοῦς (acc. absol.) as a reward for your resemblance, Eur. Hel. 77, cf. H. F. 13703 ἀπ. ἑαυτῶν ἔχειν Plat. Tim. 83 A; ἀπ. ἀδικημάτων the advantage, fruit of them, Luc. Tyrann. 5. ἀπόλαυσμα, ατος, τό, enjoyment, Aeschin. 733.1, Plut. 2.125 C. ἀπολαυστύήρια, τά, delights, enjoyments, Theod. Stud. ἀπολαυστικός, 7, dv, devoted to enjoyment, Bios Arist. Eth. N. 1.5, 2: producing enjoyment, Id. Rhet. 1. 9, 23:—Adv., ἀπολαυστικῶς ζῆν Id. Pol. 5. 10, 33. II. enjoyable, agreeable, cf things, Ath. 87 E. ἀπολαυστός, ov, enjoyed, enjoyable, Epicur. ap. Diog. L. 10. 124, Plut. Cato Ma. 4.

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

  ἐπιγεΐζω, to be on or of the earth, Herm. ap. Stob. Ecl. 1. 1074. ἐπιγείνομαιν, = ἐπιγίγνομαι, Pind. P. 4. 83, v.1. Il. το. 71. ἐπιγειό-καυλος, ov, with stalk creeping on the ground, Theophr. H. P. | 06.4.5 ἐπίγειος, ov, (yea, γῆν) on or of the earth, terrestrial, (Ga Plat. Rep. 540 A, cf. Arist. H. A. 9. 49 B, το, P. A. 2. 13, 9, al., Anth, P. append. 3609; cf. ἐπίγαιος. 2. as Subst., ἐπίγειον, τό, a stern-cable (cf. πρυμνήσιοΞ), ws ἐξοίσων ἔπ. Ar. Fr. 51, cf. 371. It is written ἐπίγυιον in Harpocr., ἐπίγυον in Polyb. 3. 46, 3 and Suid.; and these forms also occur in Inscrr., v. Bockh Urkunden u. d. Att. Seewesen p. 162: cf. ἀπόγαιος. ΤΙ. creeping, of plants, Theophr. H. P. 3. 18, 6. ἐπιγειό-φυλλος, ov, with its leaves on the ground, growing immediately from the root, Theophr. H. P. 8.9, 9., 9. 10, 2. ἐπιγελάω, fut. άσομαι [ἃ], to laugh approvingly, like προσγελάω, Lat. arrideo, opp. to émeyyeAaw (irrideo), γέλασαν δ᾽ ἐπὶ πάντες ᾿Αχαιοί Il. 23. 840, cf. Plat. Phaedo 62 A, Xen. Apol. 28, etc.; ἐπ. τινι to smile | | ᾿ ᾿ upon, Ar. Thesm. 979 ; τινι σκώψαντι Theophr. Char. 2. 3: absol., κῦμα ἐπιγελᾷ breaks with a plashing sound, Arist. Probl. 23.243 so, στόματα ἐπιγελῶντα, of the mouths of rivers, Strabo 501; λόγοι ἐπιγελῶντες pleasant words, Plut. 2. 27 F. II. --ἐπεγγελάω, Luc. Bis Acc. 5. ἐπιγεμίζω, to lay as a burden, ἐπὶ ὄνους Lxx (Neh. 13. 15), cf. A. B. 94. ἐπιγενεσιουργός, dv, -- γενεσιουργός, Clem. Al. 668. ἐπιγενήξ, és, (ἐπιγίγνομαι) growing after or late, Poll. 4. 194. ἐπυιγεννάομαι, Pass. to grow after, Ath. 635 Ὁ. ἐπιγέννημα, Dor. -Gpa, τό, that which grows upon, Hipp. 156A. II. that which is produced after, Plut. 2. 637 E:—a result, consequence, Polyb. Fr. Gramm. 55; as philosoph. term of the Stoics, Archyt. ap. Stob. 15. 1, Diog. L. 7. 86, Longin. 6. 2. in Medic. an after-symptom, Plut. 2. 910 E, Galen. ἐπιγεννηματικός, ἡ, ov, of the nature of an ἐπιγέννημα, resulting, con- sequential, Cic. Fin. 3.9. Adv. -κῶς, Chrysipp. ap. Galen. Dogm. 3. ἐπιγεραίρω, to give honour to, τινά Xen. Cyr. 8. 6, 11. ἐπιγεύομαι, Med. to taste of, τινος Plut. 2. 991 A, Ael. N. A. 4.15. ἐπιγεωμόροι, of, those after the γεωμόροι, the artisans, A. B. 257. ἐπιγηθέω, to rejoice or triumph over, ws μήτε θεὸς μήτε τις ἄλλος τοίσδ᾽ ἐπεγήθει Aesch. Pr. 157 (where Elmsl. restored ἐγεγήθει, on the ground that γέγηθα always has a pres. sense in Att.): 20 exult in, “γάμῳ ἐπιγηθήσαντες Opp. H. 1. 170. ἐπιγηράσκω, fut. άσομαι [4], to grow old one upon another, Julian. Ep. 24, cf. Od. 7. 120.

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

  ἐπάγαθος, ον, -- χρηστός, used in Epitaphs, C. I. 4991, 5020. ἐπ-ἄγαίομαι, Pass. to exult in, κάρτεϊ Ap. Rh. 3.1262: to feel a ma- lignant joy t in, Ib. 470: Ep. aor. ἐπαγάσσατο, Poéta ap. Parthen, 21. 18. ἐπ-ἄγάλλομαι, Pass. to glory in, exult in, c. dat., πολέμῳ καὶ δηϊοτῆτι Il. 16. gt, ef. Q.Sm. 7. 327, Tryph. 671; ἐπί τινι Xen. Occ. 4, 17. ἐπ-ἅ ἄγᾶανακτέω, to be eee at, Plut. Alc. 14, Ages. 10. ἐπαγγελία, ἡ, (ἐπαγγέλλω) a command, summons, Polyb. 9. 38,2. 2. as Att. law-term, properly, ἐπ. δοκιμασίας a public denunciation and summons to attend a δοκιμασία τῶν ῥητόρων (ν. δοκιμασία 4), addressed to one who, having made himself subject to ἀτιμία, yet ventured to appear as a public speaker (v. ἐπαγγέλλω 3); ἐπ. τινὶ ἀπειλεῖν Aeschin. 9. 35 ; πρὸς θεσμοθέτας Dem. 602. 11. 8. an offer, promise, profession, Dem. 519. 8, Arist. Eth. N. 9. 1,6; ἐπαγγελίας ποιεῖσθαί τινι Polyb. I. 72,6; ἐν ἐπαγγελίᾳ καταλιπών having left it as a promise, Id. 18. 11,1; τὴν ἐπ. ἐπὶ τέλος ἀγαγεῖν Ib.; ὥμων ἐπαγγελίᾳ to trust the promise of his shoulders, Philostr. 768.

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

  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 wasn’t paying attention to how we got here.” I shook my head, and we both turned to Melissa, whose green eyes clouded in thought. When we’d left the San Francisco house, we’d had no bus schedule or phone number. We hadn’t bothered to check the name of the street, and no one had taken the time to make sure that we possessed this information. Like our weekends at home, our time was our own, and we could go where we liked with no supervision. “No one remembers?” Lacy said. “We’ll head back to the downtown area and catch one of the buses. It should take us back to where we came from,” Melissa said. We walked briskly back to the street where all the shops were. It didn’t seem as if we’d gone that far, but the bustling street on which we found ourselves wasn’t the same street we’d strolled along earlier.

• From The Things They Carried (1990)

  But back then it felt like a miracle. My dreams had become a secret meeting place, and in the weeks after she died I couldn't wait to fall asleep at night. I began going to bed earlier and earlier, sometimes even in bright daylight. My mother, I remember, finally asked about it at breakfast one morning. "Timmy, what's wrong?" she said, but all I could do was shrug and say, "Nothing. I just need sleep, that's all." I didn't dare tell the truth. It was embarrassing, I suppose, but it was also a precious secret, like a magic trick, where if I tried to explain it, or even talk about it, the thrill and mystery would be gone. I didn't want to lose Linda. She was dead. I understood that. After all, I'd seen her body. And yet even as a nine-year-old I had begun to practice the magic of stories. Some I just dreamed up. Others I wrote down—the scenes and dialogue. And at nighttime I'd slide into sleep knowing that Linda would be there waiting for me. Once, I remember, we went ice skating late at night, tracing loops and circles under yellow floodlights. Later we sat by a wood stove in the warming house, all alone, and after a while I asked her what it was like to be dead. Apparently Linda thought it was a silly question. She smiled and said, "Do I look dead?" I told her no, she looked terrific. I waited a moment, then asked again, and Linda made a soft little sigh. I could smell our wool mittens drying on the stove. For a few seconds she was quiet. "Well, right now," she said, "I'm not dead. But when I am, it's like ... I don't know, I guess it's like being inside a book that nobody's reading." "A book?" I said. "An old one. It's up on a library shelf, so you're safe and everything, but the book hasn't been checked out for a long, long time. All you can do is wait. Just hope somebody'll pick it up and start reading." Linda smiled at me. "Anyhow, it's not so bad," she said. "I mean, when you're dead, you just have to be yourself." She stood up and put on her red stocking cap. "This is stupid. Let's go skate some more." So I followed her down to the frozen pond. It was late, and nobody else was there, and we held hands and skated almost all night under the yellow lights.

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

  Sleepovers were rare, but I enjoyed those times with my mother most of all because they reminded me of when it had been just the two of us and Synanon had not taken over our lives. We’d have dinner, then go to Theresa’s room, where we’d spend time looking over her record collection and reenacting her favorite musicals, coloring, cutting out paper dolls, reading storybooks and talking for hours. I discovered that Theresa could easily step into a child-like world and live there for hours, which created a kind of whimsy to our relationship. “Did you know that if you stand very still and are really quiet, you might get a chance to see a fairy?” Theresa said to me one day while we walked through a small wooded area. We stopped and looked up at the tops of the short trees that grew toward each other, creating canopies of branches that blocked out much of the sky. “Shh,” she whispered, eyes suddenly wide, index finger placed to her lips. I watched her stoop down to peek behind some low plant growth, gently pushing aside a cluster of tall clover. Birds chirped and chattered around us. I knelt to have a look, too, my heart hammering in my chest, wondering whether she had found something. Theresa was not pretending. The fairy world existed for her. When she spoke of the nature fairies to me, her green eyes would cloud over as if she were looking into that world. “Let’s sit down and wait,” she suggested. “We have to let the little forest fairies know that they are safe with us.” We made ourselves comfortable on the earthy floor, neither talking nor moving for ten minutes or so. I remained attentive, alert to the movements of any shy elusive creatures that were only inches high. Theresa finally gave a little laugh. “Come out, little fairies.” “Come out,” I echoed. When we saw not a single fairy, we finally stood and continued walking. “Did you know, Celena, that there is a community in Scotland that gardens with the help of fairies?” she said. “No,” I said. Theresa’s eyes glowed. “It’s simply amazing. All of the vegetables are triple in size.” She raised her hands, opening them wide to show me how large some of the vegetables grew to be. “One day we’ll have to visit. You won’t believe it; it’s just out of this world.” She took my hand. “Would you like to see that one day?” I nodded, and I wondered: if we could go to Scotland, could we also go other places, like back to Los Angeles? “Theresa, do you think we’ll always live here in Synanon?” I asked. My mother’s lips flickered in an attempt to keep her smile. “Synanon is a wonderful place in its own way. They have a lot to offer us.” We left the cloistered, wooded setting and walked back into the open.

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

  ἑορτή, in Ion. Prose δὁρτή (and so prob. in ἃ | Trag. verse of lon ap Ath. 258 F), 7 —a feast or festival, holiday, ἐπεὶ καὶ πᾶσιν ἑορτή Od. 20. 156; ἑορτὴ τοῖο θεοῖο 2. 258; ἑορτῆς στέργηθρ᾽ ἔχειν Aesch. Eum. 101; ἐούσης ὀρτῆς τῇ Ἥρῃ τοῖσι ᾿Αργείοισι Hat. τ. 313 ὁρτὴν ἄγειν to keep a feast, Ib. 147, 150, Thuc. 4. 5, εἴς. ; ὁρτὴν ἀνάγειν Hdt. 2. 40, 48, al.; ἑορτὴν ἑορτάζειν Xen. Ath. 3, 2; ἑορτὴν τῷ θεῷ ποιεῖν Thue. 2. 18. 2. generally, holiday-making, amusement, pastime, Aesch. Eum. 101; παιδιᾶς καὶ ἑορτῆς χάριν Plat. Phaedr, 276 B, etc.; so, ἕορ- τὴν ἡγεῖσθαί τι Thue. 1. 70. 3. proverb, κατόπιν ἑορτῆς ἥκειν το have come the day after the feast, Plat. Gorg. 447 A; ἀέργοις αἰὲν éopta every day’s a holiday to those who don’t work, Theocr. 15. 26. II. ἡ €., with or without τοῦ πάσχα, the Passover, Lxx (Ex. 34. 25.» 12.14); and in Eccl. the feast of Easter. Cf. ἔροτις. but ἐόν, Ion. 5 i? en €OLKOT OS —— eTayyy. ἑόρτιος, ov, φῇ, belonging to a festival, solemn, Greg. Naz. €optis, cos, ἡ, = ἑορτή, Schol. Ven. Il. 5. 200 ; cf. ἔροτις. ἑορτο-λόγιον, τό, a calendar of holidays, Suid. ἑορτώδης, ἐς, («idos) festal, solemn, Joseph. A.J.16.2,1,Schol. Thuc. 5.54. €os, ξή, ἑόν, Ep. for ὅς, ἥ, ὅν : (ἕ, ἕο, οὗν :—possessive Adj. of 3 pers. sing. his, her own, Lat. suus, Hom.; also in Pind., and Dor.; never in Att. Prose, only two or three times in Trag. vy SC. Aesch. Fr. 281 (iamb.), Eur. El. 1206 (lyr.), Soph. El. 1075 (if τὸν ἑὸν πότμον be admitted) ;— τὸν édv τε Πύόδαργον that kis own Podargus, Il. 23. 2953 strengthd. . ἑῷ αὐτοῦ θυμῷ in his own inmost soul, Lat. suo ipsius animo, 10. 2045 ἑοὶ αὐτοῦ θῆτες his own labourers, Od. 4. 643 :—(hence the post-Hom. ἑαυτοῦ, avTov).—It is not merely reflex., but answers to the Lat. ejus, as well as suws. 11. after Hom., it is used of other persons, 1. as Adj. 3 pers. pl. their, Hes. Op. 58, Pind. P. 2. 169, and freq. in later Ep., as Batr., and Ap. Rh., v. Ruhnk. Ep. Cr. 178. 2. in Alex. Poets, -- ἐμός, Ap. Rh. 2. 226. 3. also=ads, Id. 2. 634., 3. 140, Theocr. 17. 50. 4. -αἡμέτερος, Ap. Rh. 4. 203. 5. Ξεὑμέτερος, Id. 2. 332., 3. 267—A like confusion of persons is found in ὅς, ἥ, ὅν, and σφεῖς, even in Hom.; in σφέτερος in Hes. ; and in Att. in ἑαυτοῦ; cf. Wolf Prolegg. Ῥ. ccxlvii, sq.—For ἐάων, v. sub ἐὔς. ἑοῦς, Boeot. for ἕο, ov, gen. of pers. Pron. 3 pets., Corinna 2. ἐοῦσα, Ion. and Ep. for οὖσα, part. fem. pres. of εἰμί, Hom. ἐπ-ἀβελτερόω, to make a yet greater ass of, ἐπαβελτερώσας τόν ποτ᾽ ὄντ᾽ ἀβέλτερον Menand. Περ. 1.

• From Lit: A Memoir (2009)

  I’ll call you Monday, she says, and walk you through it. To write the stuff down is no cakewalk, since memories from that time can ravage me. But after I get home, I start getting up mornings at four or five, praying to set down words before Dev comes down. When Dev’s with Warren, I unplug the phone and apply my ass to a desk chair. Some days, I actually hear my daddy telling me stories, almost like he’s risen up to ride through the pages with Mother and our whole wacky herd. Come June, I send the agent pages on a Thursday, and she signs me the following Saturday, has an auction that week, and a few days later—while I’m chopping basil for supper—I hear the overnight envelope with payment hit my porch. In the steamy kitchen, I draw the check out and sit studying it before I even throw pasta in the bubbly water. It’s in no way a massive check, but it’s the biggest I’ve ever seen, and it’s fallen from the sky just in time to get us through the summer, plus making a down payment on a used Toyota. Saying thanks to the invisible forces that brought it, I sit looking at the check. On the table before me, there’s a giant pickle jar Dev’s filled with torn grass and crickets. The bent-legged bugs are whirring to fill the room, one or two trying to climb up the curved glass. Dev bursts in, saying, Mom, let’s set the crickets free tonight. And I tell him that’s just what I was thinking. 39God ShoppingLord, You may not recognize me speaking for someone else. I have a son. He is so little, so ignorant. He likes to stand at the screen door, calling oggie, oggie, entering language, and sometimes a dog will stop and come up the walk, perhaps accidentally. May he believe this is not an accident? At the screen, welcoming each beast in love’s name, Your emissary. —Louise Glück, “The Gift” If you’d told me even a year before I start taking Dev to church regular that I’d wind up whispering my sins in the confessional or on my knees saying the rosary, I would’ve laughed myself cockeyed. More likely pastime? Pole dancer. International spy. Drug mule. Assassin. One Sunday I’m eating a bagel with a smear and reading the paper when Dev, age eight, intensely blue-eyed in his Power Ranger pajamas, announces he wants to go to church. I barely look up. Despite my prayer life, organized religion still strikes me as bogus. Though Mother had pored over sacred texts of every kind, she was—as I’ve said before—no more able to commit to a faith than to a husband. She quoted Marx calling religion the opiate of the masses. So I’m suspect of the hierarchies.

• From Lit: A Memoir (2009)

  PART II Flashdance “So, Papa, are you feeling good now that you’re in my hands?” “No,” Papa said, “I’m feeling bad.” Then Semyon asked him, “And my brother Fyodor, when you were hacking him to pieces, did he feel good in your hands?” “No,” Papa said, “Fyodor was feeling bad.” Then Semyon asked him, “And did you think, Papa, that someday you might be feeling bad?” “No,” Papa said, “I didn’t think I might be feeling bad.” —Isaac Babel, “The Church in Novgorod”

• From Lit: A Memoir (2009)

  I’m standing by a book cart loaded with navy blue hymnals, and through the tall windows, I can see dusk falling. The leaves of the oaks are dabbed with orange paint. A woman in a snug yellow sweater is polishing her tortoiseshell glasses with a red silk square. We’re asleep most of the time, I once heard the writer George Saunders say, but we can wake up. In that instant, for no reason I can discern, I wake up. Faces cease to be blurs and grow distinct features. Coming toward me from the door is a buff musician whose CDs I own. He’s carrying a plate covered in foil, talking to a handsome, mustachioed friend whose leather jacket must’ve cost more than our rusting vehicle. I stand aside as he lowers the plate to the table and peels off the foil—homemade chocolate chip cookies melting into each other. People from around the room come up, and I snatch one and head to my seat, sinking my teeth into the buttery dough and warm chocolate. Pleasure, I feel—mouth to spine to head. A small uprush of pleasure. This, I think, is why other people aren’t screaming. I’ve briefly forgotten to feel sorry for myself, to worry, to generate any kind of report on my own performance. The marine says to the professor, Days three to ten suck the worst. You can do it this time. Just drink a lot of water. And call me. Build a wall around the day and don’t look over it…. The chair I fold myself into chills my ass. That tiny discomfort unplugs me again, and I fidget and rifle my purse for hand lotion. Why don’t I carry mints? There are people in the world who carry mints. But given a tin of mints, I’ll eat every single one straight off. As novelist Harry Crews once wrote, I’m the kind of person who—if he can’t have too much of something—doesn’t want any of it. In the front of the room, a lady asks for a moment of silence, and people on either side of me bow their heads. Are they serious? I look over at the buff musician and his friend—heads down, plus the tweedy classics professor. Lord, I think, this is some fake Christian cult I’ve wandered into. Then a guy at the front reads some kind of warm-up, saying they’re not a sect or church, reiterating how nobody’s the boss of anybody—we’re all the same—the lie of equality that teachers tried peddling in high school, where, in fact, the reigning hierarchy would’ve tied stones to the feet of druggy teens like me and dropped us off bridges. Then a laminated list of suggestions starts circling the room, with people reading a line at a time. It sounds to me like Be good and you won’t get in trouble and Stop having fun and grow up and Tell everybody how you’re bad and face the firing squad.

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

  “So how have you been, sweetheart?” For a moment I didn’t know where to begin, but before long we were deep in conversation, other relatives joining in to ask me about Synanon and what it was like to live there. “My, you’re getting to be a big girl,” my father said, patting my legs. “Your grandma used to tell me when you were four years old, ‘Jim that girl is too old to be sitting on your lap.’ And I told her, ‘Mama, she’ll never be too old. She’ll be forty, and I’ll still have her sit on my lap.’” My uncles threw back their heads and laughed with my father, and I nuzzled my face against his neck. I could see Grandma Regina laying plates on the kitchen table, a small smile on her lips. As usual she busied herself in the kitchen with the feast she’d prepared. There was gumbo made with shrimp, sausage and chicken, rice, corn bread, green beans julienne, bread pudding, pies, soda and coffee. My cousins and Uncle Joe came over from across the street, but Aunt Terry did not. “Our mom said to say hi,” they told me. “She’s not feeling well.” The mention of her name had a slightly souring effect on my mood; however, I felt too excited to be with my family and father to give her much thought. After dinner I cuddled next to my dad, resting my head against his chest so I could hear the resonant bass tones of his voice. The combined laughter of my uncles was thunderous, an earthquake of sound that vibrated off and through the walls. A few hours into the visit, my cousins wanted me to go across the street with them to their house. I went. Nothing had changed. My gaze swept the same worn furniture and brown carpet. The air held the stale smoke of cigarettes, a signature smell. Fear tickled my skin as I recalled my younger self, an apparition encapsulated in a time past. When I glanced toward the kitchen, the image of my small body being dragged across the linoleum, the angry blows of plastic racetracks ripping into my skin, clouded my memory. My cousins, unaware of or unwilling to acknowledge my discomfort, pulled me toward their bedroom. In the hallway I glanced over my shoulder at the room opposite theirs. A shroud of sorrow emanated from the static of the closed bedroom door. I knew my Aunt Terry was in there. Hiding? I wondered. Giggling, my cousins led me into their own room, flopping on their beds to stare, amazed, at the drastic change in my appearance. They plied me with questions. What was it like to be almost bald? To live in a place like Synanon? I answered, reveling in the attention. My visit lasted an evening and ended all too soon. I would not see my father again for two years. Chapter Twenty-OneG irls and Bald Heads I heard someone crying.

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

  μελο-τὕπέω, (μέλος 11) to strike up a strain, chant, τι Aesch. Ag. 1153. μελουργός, dv, (*pyw) = μελοποιός, Manetho 4. 185: hence in Eccl., peAovpynpa, τό, and μελουργία, ἡ, music; μελουργικός, 7, dv, of or for music. μέλπηθρον, τό, (μέλπων properly, the song with the dance, in Hom. (only in Il.) always in pl., of an unburied corpse, κυνῶν μέλπηθρα γέ- voro a sport of dogs, 13. 233; κυσὶ μέλπηθρα γενέσθαι 17. 255., 18. 179: cf. μολπή. UE. μελλώ --- μέλω. μελπήτωρ, opos, ὁ, (μέλπω) a singer, Manetho 4. 183. ἹΜελπομένη, ἡ, Melpomené, a Muse, properly the Songstress, Hes. Th 77: later esp. as the Muse of Tragedy. μέλπω Hom., etc.: fut. μέλψω Eur. Alc. 446, Ar. Thesm. 989 (in lyr. passages), Anth.: aor. ἔμελψα Aesch. Ag. 244 (lyr.), 1445, Ar. Thesm. 974 (lyr.) :—v. infr. 11. (For the Root, v. μέλος 11: hence μέλπηθρον, μολπή.) Poét. Verb, to sing of, celebrate with song and dance, μέλ- movres Exaepyov Il. 1. 474; so Pind. Fr. 45.10, Eur. Bacch. 155; μ. τινὰ κατὰ χέλυν Id. Alc. 446; τινὰ κώμοις Ar. Thesm. 989; μ. ᾧδαῖς Σπάρτην Anaxandr. Πρωτ. 1.19; p. ἐμὸν γάμον Eur. Tro. 340. 2. intr. to singy»Hes. Fr. 34, Aesch. Ag. 244, Eur. I. T. 420 ;—c. acc. cogn., μ. θανάσιμον γόον Aesch. Ag. 1445; ἰαχάν, βοάν Eur. Med. 149, Ττο. 547; μ. τᾶς κιθάρας ἐνοπάν to let it sound, Id. lon 882 :—c. dat. instrum., μ. αὐλῷ to play on .., Anth. P. 6.195; so, μ. πτεροῖς, of the cicada, Anacreont. 62. 9. TI. also as Dep. μέλπομαν, Hom. and Eur.: aor. part. μελψάμενος Anth. P. 7. 19: fut. μέλψομαι in pass. sense, Ib. 9. 521:—+/o sing i/o the lyre or harp, μετὰ δέ opi ἐμέλπετο θεῖος ἀοιδός, φορμίζων Od. 4.17, cf. 13.273 μέλπεο καὶ κιθάριζε h. Hom. Merc. 476:—to dance and sing, as a chorus, μετὰ μελπομένῃσιν ἐν χορῷ Il. τό. 182, cf. h. Hom. 18. 21; μέλπεσθαι “Apne to dance a war-dance in honour of Ares, by a bold metaph. for to fight on foot (ἐν oradin), Il. 7. 241: c. acc. cogn., στοναχὰς μέλποντο let them sound, Eur. Andr. 1039, cf. Phoen. 788. 2. c. acc., as in Act. fo sing, celebrate, Hes. Th. 66, Pind. P. 3.139; μ. χοροῖσι Eur. Tro. 555, cf. Bacch. 155. 3. to sport, make merry, as interpreted in h. Hom. Pan. 21, Ap. 197. μελπ-ῳδός, dv, singing songs, restored in Hesych. for μελπῴδιοι. μελύδριον, τό, Dim. of μέλος I, a little limb, M. Anton. 7. 28. of μέλος It, a ditty, Ar. Eccl. 883, Theocr. 7. 51, Bion 5. 2. μέλω, Med. μέλομαι, a Verb used in both voices, A. sometimes in a neut. sense to be an object of care or thought, B. sometimes in an act. sense to care for, take an interest in :—the diff. forms used in each sense will be found under each head,

• From Lit: A Memoir (2009)

  Once I stopped, there was a collective sigh, like the pneumatic sound of an engine giving up. A big silence held us. Then applause broke out. Feet were stomped. A few ladies got up to hug each other again. If there’d been pillows, they’d have all started whacking each other. What did the guy feel who wrote it? I asked. Every hand shot up, but Katie Butke slapped the side of my boot. I pointed to her. Happy? she said. A few ladies agreed. But a forest of white hands kept flapping. The recalcitrant Marion Pinski crossed her short white arms across her front, but I called on her anyway. The shirts, she said in a murmur. The shirts are crying. Sad. The shirts are dirty. The shirts didn’t get washed right. The shirts are crying. The man doesn’t want Monday. We broke into small groups, and as I copied down their words, they marveled at my pen’s passage across the lines. That’s me? a lady named Dawn asked, touching the letters. That’s my name? I kept a copy of the poem Katie Butke wrote that day. It’s called Monkey Face. Every poem Katie wrote was called Monkey Face—a phrase no doubt imprinted on her in ways I hate to think about. Far away St. Paul People like robots Wash their tables Scrub the floor Bored things Washrags on the window Put it away now Look at your leg Tie your shoe. Look At yourself. A monkey. One line of Marion Pinski’s still pricks me with fresh envy: I get to dance with the deep boys and the day boys. (A Buddhist friend would later tell me that Marion was a bodhisattva sent to show me how comical my artistic pretentions were.) When I gave a local poetry reading—in addition to the Minks and a few local writers—the women came on a bus, and Katie Butke leaped up, shouting with a gospel singer’s conviction, You a monkey face. (To date, my truest review.) They clapped wildly after every poem. Katie Butke even stood up a few times, taking an operatic from-the-hip bow. The unchecked emotion they embodied was exactly what Etheridge was trying to drag out of me for my poser’s pages. It drove him crazy how I’d stick in fancy names and references I thought sounded clever. Etheridge used a pen to poke the fedora back on his head. Looking at me with bloodshot eyes, he asked with frank curiosity, Now, why is a little girl from Bumfuck, Texas, dragging Friedrich Nietzsche—kicking and screaming—into this poem? Like you’re gonna preach. You ain’t no preacher, Mary Karr. You’re a singer. When I bristled that I’d been a philosophy major in college, he said, And that’s all you’re telling anybody. What you took in college. You’re pointing right back at your own head, telling everybody how smart it is. Write what you know. But according to you, I don’t know squat.

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

  vupdetos, a, ov, also os, ov Eur. I. A. 131, Anth. P. 7. 188: (νύμφη): —of a bride, bridal, nuptial, Simon. 125, Pind. N. 5. 55, Eur. 1. c.:— hence as Subst., 1. νυμφεῖον (sc. δῶμα), τό, the bridechamber, Soph. Ant. 891, 1205; in pl., Id. Tr. 920. 2. νυμφεῖα (sc. ἱερά), τά, nuptial rites, marriage, Ib. 7; but, 8. νυμφεῖα τοῦ σαυτοῦ τέκνου thine own son’s bride, Id. Ant. 568, cf. Pors. Or. 1051. νύμφευμα, τό, (νυμφεύω) marriage, espousal, in pl., τὰ μητρὸς v. Soph. O. T. 980; and often in Eur. II. in sing. the person married, καλὸν ν. τινι, as We say, ‘a good match for him,’ Eur. Tro. 420. νύμφευσις, 7, bridal, marriage, LXx (Cant. 3. 11). νυμφευτήρ, ρος, 6, --ενυμφευτής, Opp. C. 1. 265., 3. 356. νυμφευτήριος, a, ov, nuptial, τὰ v.=vipodevpa, Eur. Tro. 252. νυμφευτής, οὔ, 6, (νυμφεύων one who escorts the bride to the bride- groom’s house, also νυμφαγωγός, παρανύμφιος ; and so, generally, the negotiator of a marriage, Plat. Polit. 268 A, cf. Poll. 3. 401. II. a bridegroom, husband, Eur. lon 913. νυμφεύτρια, ἡ, she who escorts the bride, a bridesmaid, Ar. Ach. 1057, Plut. Lyc. 15; cf. παρανύμφιος. 11. a bride, Synes. 158 B, Phot. νυμφεύω, (νύμφη) to lead the bride to the bridegroom’s house (cf. vup- eutns), to give in marriage to one, to betroth, v. τινὶ παῖδα (Pind. N. 3. 96), Eur. Alc. 317, 1. A. 885, 461 :—so, in Med., of Hera νυμφευομένη, Juno pronuba, Paus. 9. 2, 7. 2. to marry, of the woman, Lat. nubere, Soph. Ant. 654, 816; but also of the man, Lat. ducere, Eur. Med. 625, Ion 819, Isocr. 217 E; and so, v. λέχη Eubul. Navy. 1; of both parties, νυμφεύετ᾽, εὖ πράσσοιτε Eur. Med. 313. II. Pass. c. fut. med. νυμφεύσομαι Eur. Tro. 1139, Supp. 455 Herm. ; aor. med. et pass. ἐνυμφευσάμην Id. Hipp. 561; ἐνυμφεύθην Id. Med. 1336, Ion 1371 :—to be given in marriage, marry, of the woman, Eur. ll. cc. ; also, νυμφεύεσθαι νυμφεύματα Id. 1. T. 364; νυμφεύεσθαί τινι to be wedded to a man, Id. Andr. 403; also, mapa τινι Id. Med. 1336; ν. ἔκ τινος to be wedded by him, Id. Bacch. 28. IIT. in Med. of the man, fo take to wife, νυμφεύου δέμας Ἤλέκτρας Id. El. 1340.

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

  that the request would be turned down. Instead, she’d applied for welfare, knowing Synanon would gladly accept the money. She then told management that since the organization was receiving public aid, my father had a legal right to visitation. We arrived at my grandparents’ home in the early evening. It felt strange to be back at the house where I’d spent my days in refuge from Aunt Terry, who lived across the street. My father arrived shortly after we did, seeming to burst through the door. “Hey!” he called. “Daddy!” I ran into his open arms, and he held me tight, laughing, his voice deep and rumbling. His warmth seemed to spread into my own being. He smelled of aftershave and spicy cologne. His shiny brown face and large forehead gleamed in the light. His dark eyes crackled with humor. I felt as if we had seen each other only yesterday. My father sat on the sofa and pulled me onto his lap. “So how have you been, sweetheart?” For a moment I didn’t know where to begin, but before long we were deep in conversation, other relatives joining in to ask me about Synanon and what it was like to live there. “My, you’re getting to be a big girl,” my father said, patting my legs. “Your grandma used to tell me when you were four years old, ‘Jim that girl is too old to be sitting on your lap.’ And I told her, ‘Mama, she’ll never be too old. She’ll be forty, and I’ll still have her sit on my lap.’” My uncles threw back their heads and laughed with my father, and I nuzzled my face against his neck. I could see Grandma Regina laying plates on the kitchen table, a small smile on her lips. As usual she busied herself in the kitchen with the feast she’d prepared. There was gumbo made with shrimp, sausage and chicken, rice, corn bread, green beans julienne, bread pudding, pies, soda and coffee. My cousins and Uncle Joe came over from across the street, but Aunt Terry did not. “Our mom said to say hi,” they told me. “She’s not feeling

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

  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 wasn’t paying attention to how we got here.” I shook my head, and we both turned to Melissa, whose green eyes clouded in thought. When we’d left the San Francisco house, we’d had no bus schedule or phone number. We hadn’t bothered to check the name of the street, and no one had taken the time to make sure that we possessed this information. Like our weekends at home, our time was our own, and we could go where we liked with no supervision. “No one remembers?” Lacy said. “We’ll head back to the downtown area and catch one of the buses. It should take us back to where we came from,” Melissa said. We walked briskly back to the street where all the shops were. It didn’t seem as if we’d gone that far, but the bustling street on which we found ourselves wasn’t the same street we’d strolled along earlier.

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

  He gestured to the vehicle wordlessly and the rest of us understood: it was our car and he did not have to ask permission to drive it. Once while watching TV, Theresa sprang up from the sofa during a commercial break to grab a wooden spoon from the kitchen drawer. Bursting into song, and using the utensil as a pretend microphone, she danced about the living room like a ballerina. Just because. We all laughed. There would be no “game” later where people might scream at her for being so silly. She could be silly if she wanted to. It was our home for the month, and soon we would have a permanent home where we would live normal American mainstream lives. Our freedom intoxicated us. We did not have to endure the background noise of a radio in our living room tuned to The Wire , and the sounds of people screaming and yelling at each other all hours of the day and night, or the rambling rants of Chuck in his gravely droning voice. Sara and I did not have to stand at attention by our beds and wait for a demonstrator to inspect our room before breakfast, and we did not have to spend hours each week in games of attack therapy. Best of all, I could grow out my hair. I would never have to shave my head again or keep my hair inches short. Soon, I reasoned, Synanon would be far behind us, a distant memory. In fact, I fantasized that someday I might not even remember the place at all. So I was nothing short of astonished when Ray and Theresa announced that they had decided that the best solution for our family would be for us to join another commune. For sure, I’d thought, we were finished—nail the coffin closed; we were done with any and all things remotely commune related. Our first evenings in Santa Clara were spent visiting with Mary Ann and Jane’s parents, who lived just minutes from our apartment. Ray and Theresa would sit for hours at their kitchen table decompressing, discussing and rehashing their Synanon cult experience, remembering events that had caused them distress, remorse, or fear, and expressing long-repressed feelings. Sometimes there were exclamations of disbelief at what they had put up with and bursts of laughter at the utter ludicrousness, followed by a shaking of heads when they considered all the red flags they’d ignored. How had they not seen the obvious? Mary Ann’s parents would listen with rapt, sympathetic attention. After all, their daughter was still very much devoted to Synanon. “When will Mary Ann come to her senses?” Laila had wondered aloud, her voice a smooth honeyed baritone. Had my parents learned nothing from these table talks?