View Synopsis. Read our daily devotional, find answers to frequently asked questions, or sign up for our e-newsletter. Hard Bound - First Printing. Sold Items. Alleluia, alleluia, alleluia! No skeuomorphic bookshelves, no unnecessary cruft. Related series Angel Graphic Novel.
Sometimes the party was over while it was going on. Her way of being was in place.
The woman was toying around through her apartment in some silly fuzzy slippers, waiting for the coffee water to boil. Her slip and robe felt just fine. At the window, she was eating a perfect cookie and getting some recollection done. To be close to God is the bread of angels: to remember love is to hear the trumpet and the strings.
Ardella was smart, just about as smart as you could get short of being somebody like Albert Einstein. But all she produced was feeling and all she was interested in was feeling. Perhaps one could understand what made her beautiful by getting with the fact that this woman had a captivating glow in her rhythm. Glowing in rhythm all the way across.
Her glow was an aspect of unswerving faith in the power of giving others their due. She was sensitive; paying attention to herself alone would have made Ardella feel that she was committing some sort of very raw sin.
For all that she had been alone many times, alone as many women are in our world, not always waiting for anybody special but learning how to handle the tricky shapes in our world, not always waiting for anybody special but learning how to handle the tricky shapes all the love inside her might take. Those shapes take on the spiritual form of that trumpet and those strings.
They suddenly expand into some kind of a creamy orchestra with a brass cherry on top, the dessert of sound telling Ardella all the things that she preferred to remember about the majesty of whispers and of tenderness, and of the closeness that knows no recurrent definition other than that of an antidote to all the loneliness that makes the soul feel as though it has been compressed into an insect sentenced to abide forever in the scratchy test pocket of darkness.
Outside, autumn was throwing in its hand and letting winter take all the time on the table. When spring had the right cards, even if it was late this coming year, it would take the time away from the champion of chill. Ardella had the good fortune of being able to tell the speed of the wind by looking at the trees in the park. Such things helped you get yourself straight. The rain on the window told you what to put on.
The temperature of the air let you know when spring had given in to summer. Autumn was when the city was dressed in red and gold. That trumpet and those strings: remaking themselves into the psychology of romance, where feeling becomes a way of thinking and perceiving the world, a way of analyzing. That brass, those strings, and those bows always find a way of expressing everything from the very smallest whisper at the right time to the broad strokes of something as clarion as an electric blue silk tie or a shrimp orange dress. Each handed over in a gift-wrapped box with a card on a day that was not a birthday, not a holiday, just a day of acknowledgment that someone was thinking about somebody and could not hold back saying it in a specifically selected way.
Windy out there through the glass and over into the park, windy the way it was when she was right and he was right and they were snuffled up and on foot, looking for a new place in the park where they could stand and talk about feelings. Or explain themselves to each other, or reduce every aspect of their passion to the essence that arrived with a hug.
An embrace that had no heating problems as it flowed in all directions, pasting a big feeling of light inside and outside of every little bit of the two of them.
Now I feel — face it, face it, face — out of place. It comes down to something I knew even before I was lucky enough to know it: I need some love to put me in my place. Oh, she had had it going on so well at one time above all other times that when the recollection of that way that she felt on the dance floor, with the beat jumping or moving slow, walking down the street and being made to feel like the last star shining in bluest heaven, sitting on one side of the table at a restaurant where the meal was made even more delicious by what she was being told, living in the register of the voice on the other end of the telephone, standing next to him out on deck of the cruise ship moving around the island with the salt water air doing its best to make her hair nappy, turning into absolute fire and total delicacy when alone with him, and floating for days on the memory of one touch that went so much deeper than all the others.
In that orchestra, with that trumpet and the strings, on what midnight blue occasion has there ever been a better moment to open the barn door under the moonlight and let the songs go loose? The songs move not with fright but with ease. Those are the moments when feeling, above all else, has to show its face in sound. Such points of celestial clarity help the men among us get a better grip on where their strength actually comes from, and how it makes itself most felt. He was sitting in his room pretending all was well.
On the street, when the memory arrived of the way she did what she did and went so effectively about being who she was, Leroy tried to play the memory off. At night, when a cluster of clouds might remind him of one of the ways she wore her hair, Leroy knew he had played himself, or that he had allowed himself to be played by listening when he should have gone deaf.
He got all tangled up in ideas about how he ought to be that had nothing to do with the freedom she gave him when the big feeling scooped the two of them up. He thought this and he thought some other stuff, usually at the advice of his strumble-brained friends, none of who knew anything about love but sure had plenty to say about it. They told the man that he was getting run around by this woman like she was his mother telling him chores to do.
You had better get your priorities straight. Your first priority is being by yourself and going out to have whatever kind of fun you want to have whenever you feel it.
Women always trying to pull somebody into something too close or too matrimonial so that they can drop that velvet-covered chain, drop that ball, trap these men out here. You got to know how to put all these things together.
Back up some. Throw some space up in there. Give yourself some air. Guard that freedom. Put her in her place. In that big feeling put under the tonal microscope of the trumpet and the strings, knowing how to be together is more important than knowing how to be alone, which is what all of us have to learn in order to become individuals of our own choice.
When that time has been spent, however, when the woman is now woman and the man is now a man, and neither of them smudges like a bad copy of some other somebody, then the time to learn how to be together is more important than anything else. The trumpet and the strings give us the impression that there is no other subject worth comparing to the story of a man and a woman, because the great meaning of romance, the reason we all seek some version of it and the reason we all find ourselves coming back to it, is that romance says one thing more than anything else, and that thing is what we all want to believe more than anything else, no matter the subject, no matter the outcome: None of those profound feelings are meaningless.
In that winter, one day after a heavy drop the night before, when there was snow everywhere, Ardella turned a corner and saw Leroy coming in her direction. Each of them stood out against the whiteness that had covered the city and each of them appeared more individual than ever, walking in their overcoats, ears covered, and clouds coming from their mouths and their noses.
It is in excellent condition. It guest stars Buffy, Faith, Spike and Willow. Take a look at my pictures.
How do you grade?. The price may vary based on size, weight, and location. Size: 7" x 10". Winterworld: Better Angels, Colder Hearts. Art: Butch Guice.
Story: Chuck Dixon. The apocalyptic tale of an Earth turned into an icy hell continues in these new stories that pick up where the original graphic novel left off. This collection features the re-adaptation of the fan-favorite episode Smile Time, the mini-series Shadow Puppets which include puppet Spike and Lorne , and a puppet story from the special collection Angel: Mask.
These are both first printings. Both are in great condition, have only been purchased and protected in storage. Please see pics for accurate condition. The items pictured are the actual items you will receive. LA gets transported to Hell, forcing unforeseen consequences and new enemies.
A tremendous continuation of a fantastic show. Hard Bound - First Printing. Sponsored Listings. Got one to sell?
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