Word: hazing
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...Andra Gordon does a marvelous job as the ambiguously innocent Agnes. She treads the narrow line between insanity and sainthood with all the fey grace that could be desired. As she floats across the stage, she resembles nothing so much as an unnaturally ethereal pre-Raphaelite saint, with her haze of red hair and huge desperate eyes. Her feet scarcely seem to touch the ground. She appears moored to the earth by only the most fragile of bonds, ready at the slightest inclination to cast off her moorings and soar off the stage. It is perhaps fortunate for all concerned...
...barely regained my senses when it happened again. From out of the haze of mud dripping from my forehead and eyelids, from out of the cloud of exhaust left by the garbage truck, a car was aiming straight for my head. Maybe the driver had decided to pass another car by going over the island without seeing me, or maybe he thought I was a mud puddle, or maybe he simply wanted to hit me for the sheer sadistic pleasure, but whatever the motive, that Honda's grille left an imprint on my forehead that remains to this...
...past is another country, and nowhere more visibly so than here. One needs to remember how bare of images medieval life was -- how utterly unlike the image-haze of competing visual messages, from billboards to print ads to TV, in which we live today. A man in Chicago sees more images in a day than his 14th century ancestor in York saw in 20 years. In medieval England the painted or carved image was the blazing exception to nature...
...cavalry brats, the years between the wars are seen through a golden haze. Jane Wilson Cooper, daughter of the late Colonel Garnet ("Bill") Wilson, a 40-year cavalryman, recalls a "marvelous sense of security when you heard the bugle call tattoo or the gun was fired for retreat. It was the Depression, but we were never aware of not having money. What I remember is fox hunting at Fort Oglethorpe, not being broke." Her voice, these years later, carries enormous pride at being family to an elite corps of warriors...
...clear and wistful light: the mirrored buildings angled like kitchen knives, the Hopper stores dead quiet, the city's poor dazed like laundry hung out to dry on their fire escapes. For contrast, seek real country roads, tire-track roads straddling islands of weeds and rolling out into white haze. Such roads are not easy to find these days, but they exist, waiting to trace your solitude back into your memories, your dreams...