Music Banter

Go Back   Music Banter > Community Center > The Lounge > Games, Lists, Jokes and Polls
Register Blogging Search Today's Posts Mark Forums Read
Welcome to Music Banter Forum! Make sure to register - it's free and very quick! You have to register before you can post and participate in our discussions with over 70,000 other registered members. After you create your free account, you will be able to customize many options, you will have the full access to over 1,100,000 posts.

Reply
 
Thread Tools Display Modes
Old 12-02-2016, 07:14 PM   #91 (permalink)
Groupie
 
Join Date: Dec 2016
Posts: 20
Default

“To spend time is to pass it in a specified manner. To waste time is to expend it thoughtlessly or carelessly. We all have time to either spend or waste and it is our decision what to do with it. But once passed, it is gone forever.” - Bruce Lee
lucarossisp is offline   Reply With Quote
Old 12-04-2016, 09:00 AM   #92 (permalink)
Aficionado of Fine Filth
 
Psy-Fi's Avatar
 
Join Date: Nov 2009
Location: You don't want to look in there.
Posts: 2,334
Default

“Hallucinations are bad enough. But after awhile you learn to cope with things like seeing your dead grandmother crawling up your leg with a knife in her teeth. Most acid fanciers can handle this sort of thing. But nobody can handle that other trip, the possibility that any freak with $1.98 can walk into the Circus-Circus and suddenly appear in the sky over downtown Las Vegas twelve times the size of God, howling anything that comes into his head. No, this is not a good town for psychedelic drugs.”
- Hunter S. Thompson (Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas)
__________________
Dock Ellis & The LSD No-No
Psy-Fi is offline   Reply With Quote
Old 12-27-2016, 09:56 PM   #93 (permalink)
Groupie
 
Road Ratt's Avatar
 
Join Date: Dec 2016
Posts: 28
Default

It is only when a mosquito lands on your testicles that you realize there is always a way to solve problems without using violence.
Road Ratt is offline   Reply With Quote
Old 01-25-2017, 09:01 AM   #94 (permalink)
Music Addict
 
ribbons's Avatar
 
Join Date: Oct 2009
Posts: 520
Default

"I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love,
If you want me again look for me under your boot-soles.
You will hardly know who I am or what I mean,
But I shall be good health to you nevertheless,
And filter and fibre your blood."

- Walt Whitman
ribbons is offline   Reply With Quote
Old 01-25-2017, 10:40 AM   #95 (permalink)
Shoo Thoughts
 
Mr. Charlie's Avatar
 
Join Date: Oct 2013
Location: These Mountains
Posts: 2,286
Default

As soon as you see something, you already start to intellectualise it. As soon as you intellectualise something, it is no longer what you saw.

- Shunryu Suzuki-roshi
Mr. Charlie is offline   Reply With Quote
Old 01-31-2017, 06:24 AM   #96 (permalink)
Shoo Thoughts
 
Mr. Charlie's Avatar
 
Join Date: Oct 2013
Location: These Mountains
Posts: 2,286
Default

Thought creates things by slicing up reality into small bits that it can easily grasp. Thus when you are think-ing you are thing-ing. Thought does not report things, it distorts reality to create things, and in so doing it allows what is the very essence of the real to escape. Thus to the extent we actually imagine a world of discrete and separate things, conceptions have become perceptions, and we have in this manner populated our universe with nothing but ghosts.


- D.T. Suzuki
Mr. Charlie is offline   Reply With Quote
Old 02-01-2017, 07:59 PM   #97 (permalink)
mayor of spookytown
 
Chiomara's Avatar
 
Join Date: Jan 2017
Posts: 570
Default

“I hate cats."
Death's face became a little stiffer, if that were possible. The blue glow in his eye sockets flickered red for an instant.
"I SEE," he said. The tone suggested that death was too good for cat haters.”
― Terry Pratchett, Wyrd Sisters

"I am an excitable person who only understands life lyrically, musically, in whom feelings are much stronger as reason. I am so thirsty for the marvelous that only the marvelous has power over me. Anything I can not transform into something marvelous, I let go. Reality doesn’t impress me. I only believe in intoxication, in ecstasy, and when ordinary life shackles me, I escape, one way or another. No more walls."
- Anais Nin


“The truth about the world, he said, is that anything is possible. Had you not seen it all from birth and thereby bled it of its strangeness it would appear to you for what it is, a hat trick in a medicine show, a fevered dream, a trance bepopulate with chimeras having neither analogue nor precedent, an itinerant carnival, a migratory tentshow whose ultimate destination after many a pitch in many a mudded field is unspeakable and calamitous beyond reckoning.

The universe is no narrow thing and the order within it is not constrained by any latitude in its conception to repeat what exists in one part in any other part. Even in this world more things exist without our knowledge than with it and the order in creation which you see is that which you have put there, like a string in a maze, so that you shall not lose your way. For existence has its own order and that no man's mind can compass, that mind itself being but a fact among others.”
― Cormac McCarthy, Blood Meridian, or the Evening Redness in the West


"Everett’s quantum theory without collapse describes the world as a continually proliferating jungle of conflicting possibilities, each isolated inside its own universe. In that world (which we might call super reality) one M device splits into five. However, humans do not happen to live in super reality but in the world of mere reality, where only one thing happens at a time. We can picture Everett’s super reality as a continually branching tree of possibilities in which everything that can happen actually does happen. Each individual’s experience (lived out in mere reality, not super reality) is a tiny portion of a single branch on that lush and perpetually flowering tree."
- Nick Herbert, Quantum Reality

"I want a trouble-maker for a lover, blood spiller, blood drinker, a heart of flame, who quarrels with the sky and fights with fate, who burns like fire on the rushing sea."
- Rumi
Chiomara is offline   Reply With Quote
Old 02-20-2017, 01:24 PM   #98 (permalink)
mayor of spookytown
 
Chiomara's Avatar
 
Join Date: Jan 2017
Posts: 570
Default

Some more!

"A hunter is someone who listens
So hard to his prey it pulls the weapon
Out of his hand and impales
Itself. " -Anne Carson

"Music is a dream without the isolation of sleep. In fact whilst listening to music, your ego is living. But your universal ego -your principle watching of your self ego- is taking a new level of participation, the dream is reality because you’re living the dream, and your dreams control your reality.
The supreme reality is creativity (all kinds of art), which takes you back to your mental origins.
So my concept (if there’s one) includes your mental superior reality as well as daily life.
The musical theory is perfection, sometimes never obtained. The concept is a mental reaction, the process of movement and change, the basics of mankind.
Music to me is the background to a mental picture, but the exact interpretation must be made by the listener, hence the music is only half composed and the listener himself should attack the composition to gain a mental repercussion.
The listener has to add meaning.
Of course my composition is in a basic direction which is my own creativity, but I think it leaves space for interpretation, which must be also done by the listener.
This is why perhaps people love or hate music!
Some people don’t invest effort into things if no material profit is to be had, unaware of the mental joys.
This is a very short explanation of political and marketing manipulation, I could go on, but it is for people to find their own brain oscillation, if they don’t it becomes a bad boring joke.
The principles of my music are to make the listener powerful and happy to endure our dying planet life by using their own creativity, and being aware of emotion.
It should be a way of living by people who compose their lives and not as is usual the composition of politicians and manipulators.
I wish everybody a pleasant exploration of themselves, I cannot say it properly in words.
I’m not a poet but a musician."
- Klaus Schulze, 1977.

"It is not quite as dark here as we thought. On the contrary, the interior is pulsating with light. It is, of course, the internal light of roots, a wandering phosphorescence, tiny veins of a light marbling the darkness, an evanescent shimmer of nightmarish substances. Likewise, when we sleep, severed from the world, straying into deep introversion, on a return journey into ourselves, we can see clearly through our closed eyelids, because thoughts are kindled in us by internal tapers and smolder erratically. This is how total regressions occur, retreats into self, journeys to the roots. This is how we branch out into anamnesis and are shaken by underground subcutaneous shivers. For it is only above ground, in the light of day, that we are a trembling, articulate bundle of tunes; in the depth we disintegrate again into black murmurs, confused purring, a multitude of unfinished stories."
- Bruno Schulz, “Spring,” from Sanatorium Under the Sign of the Hourglass, translated by Celina Wieniewska.

"All sorcery is seduction."
- Daniel A. Schulke

"Identity is an obsession, a composite of personalities, all counterfeiting each other; a faveolated ego, a resurging catacomb where the phantomesque demiurguses seek in us their reality."
- Austin Osman Spare

..But my favorite of all is a letter that Henry Miller wrote to Anais Nin:

"Anais:

Don't expect me to be sane anymore. Don't let's be sensible. It was a marriage at Louveciennes—you can't dispute it. I came away with pieces of you sticking to me; I am walking about, swimming, in an ocean of blood, your Andalusian blood, distilled and poisonous. Everything I do and say and think relates back to the marriage. I saw you as the mistress of your home, a Moor with a heavy face, a negress with a white body, eyes all over your skin, woman, woman, woman. I can't see how I can go on living away from you—these intermissions are death. How did it seem to you when Hugo came back? Was I still there? I can't picture you moving about with him as you did with me. Legs closed. Frailty. Sweet, treacherous acquiescence. Bird docility. You became a woman with me. I was almost terrified by it. You are not just thirty years old—you are a thousand years old.

Spoiler for (Continued):
Here I am back and still smouldering with passion, like wine smoking. Not a passion any longer for flesh, but a complete hunger for you, a devouring hunger. I read the paper about suicides and murders and I understand it all thoroughly. I feel murderous, suicidal. I feel somehow that it is a disgrace to do nothing, to just bide one's time, to take it philosophically, to be sensible. Where has gone the time when men fought, killed, died for a glove, a glance, etc? (A victrola is playing that terrible aria from Madama Butterfly—"Some day he'll come!")

I still hear you singing in the kitchen—a sort of inharmonic, monotonous Cuban wail. I know you're happy in the kitchen and the meal you're cooking is the best meal we ever ate together. I know you would scald yourself and not complain. I feel the greatest peace and joy sitting in the dining room listening to you rustling about, your dress like the goddess Indra studded with a thousand eyes.

Anais, I only thought I loved you before; it was nothing like this certainty that's in me now. Was all this so wonderful only because it was brief and stolen? Were we acting for each other, to each other? Was I less I, or more I, and you less or more you? Is it madness to believe that this could go on? When and where would the drab moments begin? I study you so much to discover the possible flaws, the weak points, the danger zones. I don't find them—not any. That means I am in love, blind, blind. To be blind forever! (Now they're singing "Heaven and Ocean" from La Gioconda.)

I picture you playing the records over and over—Hugo's records. "Parlez moi d amour." The double life, double taste, double joy and misery. How you must be furrowed and ploughed by it. I know all that, but I can't do anything to prevent it. I wish indeed it were me who had to endure it. I know now your eyes are wide open. Certain things you will never believe anymore, certain gestures you will never repeat, certain sorrows, misgivings, you will never again experience. A kind of white criminal fervor in your tenderness and cruelty. Neither remorse nor vengeance, neither sorrow nor guilt. A living it out, with nothing to save you from the abysm but a high hope, a faith, a joy that you tasted, that you can repeat when you will.

All morning I was at my notes, ferreting through my life records, wondering where to begin, how to make a start, seeing not just another book before me but a life of books. But I don't begin. The walls are completely bare—I had taken everything down before going to meet you. It is as though I had made ready to leave for good. The spots on the walls stand out—where our heads rested. While it thunders and lightnings I lie on the bed and go through wild dreams. We're in Seville and then in Fez and then in Capri and then in Havana. We're journeying constantly, but there is always a machine and books, and your body is always close to me and the look in your eyes never changes. People are saying we will be miserable, we will regret, but we are happy, we are laughing always, we are singing. We are talking Spanish and French and Arabic and Turkish. We are admitted everywhere and they strew our path with flowers.

I say this is a wild dream—but it is this dream I want to realize. Life and literature combined, love the dynamo, you with your chameleon's soul giving me a thousand loves, being anchored always in no matter what storm, home wherever we are. In the mornings, continuing where we left off. Resurrection after resurrection. You asserting yourself, getting the rich varied life you desire; and the more you assert yourself the more you want me, need me. Your voice getting hoarser, deeper, your eyes blacker, your blood thicker, your body fuller. A voluptuous servility and tyrannical necessity. More cruel now than before—consciously, wilfully cruel. The insatiable delight of experience.
Chiomara is offline   Reply With Quote
Old 03-07-2017, 05:45 PM   #99 (permalink)
mayor of spookytown
 
Chiomara's Avatar
 
Join Date: Jan 2017
Posts: 570
Default

....And EVEN MORE! (Even though nobody likes my quotes ) Rediscovered these today:

Pablo Neruda:
“I love things with a wild passion, extravagantly. I cherish tongs, and scissors; I adore cups, hoops, soup turrents, not to mention of course- the hat. I love all things, not only the grand, but also the infinitely small: the thimble, spurs, dishes, vases. Oh, my soul, the planet is radiant, teeming with pipes in hand, conductors of smoke; with keys, saltshakers, and well, things crafted by the human hand, everything- the curve of a fabric, the new bloodless birth of gold, the eyeglasses, nails, brooms, watches, compasses, coins, the silken plushness of chairs. Oh humans have constructed a multitude of pure things: objects of wood, crystal, cord, wondrous tables, ships, staircases. I love all things, not because they might be warm or fragrant, but rather because- I don’t know why, because this ocean is yours, and mine: the buttons, the wheels, the little forgotten treasures, the fans of feathery love spreading orange blossoms, the cups, the knives, the shears, everything rests in the handle, the contour, the traces of fingers, of a remote hand lost in the most forgotten regions of the ordinary obscured. I pass through houses, streets, elevators, touching things; I glimpse objects and secretly desire something because it chimes, and something else because, because it is as yielding as gentle hips, something else I adore for its deepwater hue, something else for its velvety depths. Oh irrevocable river of things. People will not say that I only loved fish or plants of the rain forest or meadow, that I only loved things that leap, rise, sigh, and survive. It is not true: many things gave me completeness. They did not only touch me. My hand did not merely touch them, but rather, they befriended my existence in such a way that with me, they indeed existed, and they were for me so full of life, and they lived with me half-alive, and they will die with me half-dead.”


If love wants you, suddenly your past is
obsolete science. Old maps,
disproved theories, a diorama.

The moment our bodies are set to spring open.
The immanence that reassembles matter
passes through us then disperses
into time and place:
the spasm of fur stroked upright; shocked electrons.
-Anne Michaels, “Last Night’s Moon” (excerpt)


The wolf runs.
It runs three legged, like all damaged creatures, across the snow.
She thinks: this is true.
She thinks: this is a life.
She thinks: I do not want to die, but my life will always be like this—wounded and animal, lurching against white.
-Lidia Yuknavitch, The Small Backs of Children


Often when I imagine you
your wholeness cascades into many shapes.
You run like a herd of luminous deer
and I am dark, I am forest.
-Rainer Maria Rilke, from I, 45


We find out the heart only by dismantling what
the heart knows. By redefining the morning,
we find a morning that comes just after darkness.
We can break through marriage into marriage.
By insisting on love we spoil it, get beyond
affection and wade mouth-deep into love.
We must unlearn the constellations to see the stars.
But going back toward childhood will not help.
The village is not better than Pittsburgh.
Only Pittsburgh is more than Pittsburgh.
Rome is better than Rome in the same way the sound
of raccoon tongues licking the inside walls
of the garbage tub is more than the stir
of them in the muck of the garbage. Love is not
enough. We die and are put into the earth forever.
We should insist while there is still time. We must
eat through the wildness of her sweet body already
in our bed to reach the body within that body.
-Jack Gilbert: Tear It Down

Last edited by Chiomara; 03-07-2017 at 05:51 PM.
Chiomara is offline   Reply With Quote
Old 03-08-2017, 11:43 PM   #100 (permalink)
Jukebox Babe
 
elphenor's Avatar
 
Join Date: Jun 2016
Posts: 3,490
Default

Terry Pratchett, Pablo Neruda , Cormac McCarthy

Not bad
__________________
Just another marketing ploy
elphenor is offline   Reply With Quote
Reply

Thread Tools
Display Modes

Similar Threads



© 2003-2016 Advameg, Inc.

SEO by vBSEO 3.5.2 ©2010, Crawlability, Inc.