"It isn't the mountains ahead too climb that wear you out,its the pebble in your shoe"

*to

*it's

'Bowing'

Thank you,kind spelling policeman,but when I type too fast,I do **** up.
I am forever grateful for you correcting me,I will try not to **** up again,but don't count on perfection.

'Grin'

"If you think you can do a thing or think you can't do a thing, you're right."

- Henry Ford

“If you want to get laid, go to college. If you want an education, go to the library.”
― Frank Zappa

College it is!

lol good one

It's one of those jokes where you figure someone's gotta say it, and you might as well be the one to embarrass yourself.

Jerry: Traditionally, science fairs are a father and son thing.
Rick: Scientifically, traditions are an idiot thing.

Rick and Morty ****ing rules.

"It happened on a Sunday when my mother was escorting my twin brother and me down the steps of the tenement where we lived. We were going to church. While walking down the hallway to the entrance of the building, we heard an incredible crash mixed with screaming and cries for help. The accident involved three cars, all with families in them. Somehow, in the confusion, I was no longer holding my mother's hand. At the place where I stood at the curb, I could see something rolling from one of the overturned cars. It stopped at the curb where I stood. It was the head of a little girl. I bent down to touch the face, to speak to it -- but before I could touch it someone carried me away."

Joel-Peter Witkin (photographer/sculptor of my current avvy)

“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

It is only when a mosquito lands on your testicles that you realize there is always a way to solve problems without using violence.

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

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

“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

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.

....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

Hold my beer

So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.

c:
I love that one.

I need this framed IMMEDIATELY.

****ing awesome

That does make him at least five times as awesome. Ten if he nailed one of them.

Cecil Beaton on Tallulah Bankhead:

"Tallulah Bankhead is a wicked archangel with her flowing ash-blonde hair and carven features. Her profile is perfectly Grecian, flow of line from forehead to nose like the head on a medallion. ... She is a Medusa, very exotic, with a glorious skull, high pumice-stone cheek bones, and a broad brow, and was equally interesting sculpturally when she was plump as she now is cadaverously thin. Hers is the most easily recognizable face I know and the most luscious. … Miss Bankhead's cheeks are like huge acid-pink peonies, her eyelashes are built out with hot liquid paint to look like burnt matches, and her sullen, discontented, rather evil rosebud of a mouth is painted the brightest scarlet and is as shiny as Tiptree's strawberry jam."

“It is easy to blur the truth with a simple linguistic trick: start your story from "Secondly." Yes, this is what Rabin did. He simply neglected to speak of what happened first. Start your story with "Secondly," and the world will be turned upside-down. Start your story with "Secondly," and the arrows of the Red Indians are the original criminals and the guns of the white men are entirely the victims. It is enough to start with "Secondly," for the anger of the black man against the white to be barbarous. Start with "Secondly," and Gandhi becomes responsible for the tragedies of the British.”


― Mourid Barghouti - مريد البرغوثي, I Saw Ramallah

“The white man was created a devil, to bring chaos upon this earth.”

Malcolm X , 1953

Was pretty sure this dude was gay just from that, and what do you know, Wikipedia backs me up. lulz

Meh. The Nation of Islam is the black Ku Klux Klan.

Great quote, white people >>>

i don't think thats what malcolm meant but whatever makes you happy :)

meh. ku klux klan is a hate group. nation of islam was like a reaction to that hate. two very different things.

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

https://68.media.tumblr.com/eb576f92...e3eko1_540.png


To fall in love is to individualize someone by the signs he bears or emits. It is to become sensitive to these signs, to undergo an apprenticeship to them (thus the slow individualization of Albertine in the group of young girls). It may be that friendship is nourished on observation and conversation, but love is born from and nourished on silent interpretation. The beloved appears as a sign, a “soul”; the beloved expresses a possible world unknown to us, implying, enveloping, imprisoning a world that must be deciphered, that is, interpreted. What is involved, here, is a plurality of worlds; the pluralism of love does not concern only the multiplicity of loved beings, but the multiplicity of souls or worlds in each of them. To love is to try to explicate, to develop these unknown worlds that remain enveloped within the beloved.
— Gilles Deleuze, Proust and Signs

This omnipresent cult of the body is extraordinary. It is the only object on which everyone is made to concentrate, not as a source of pleasure, but as an object of frantic concern, in the obsessive fear of failure or substandard performance, a sign and an anticipation of death, that death to which no one can any longer give a meaning, but which everyone knows has at all times to be prevented. The body is cherished in the perverse certainty of its uselessness, in the total certainty of its non-resurrection. Now, pleasure is an effect of the resurrection of the body, by which it exceeds that hormonal, vascular and dietetic equilibrium in which we seek to imprison it, that exorcism by fitness and hygiene. So the body has to be made to forget pleasure as present grace, to forget its possible metamorphosis into other forms of appearance and become dedicated to the utopian preservation of a youth that is, in any case, already lost. For the body which doubts its own existence is already half-dead, and the current semi-yogic, semi-ecstatic cult of the body is a morbid preoccupation. The care taken of the body while it is alive prefigures the way it will be made up in the funeral home, where it will be given a smile that is really ‘into’ death.
— Jean Baudrillard, America

One of the beliefs of the Nation of Islam is that white people were created specifically to rule black people by trickery and deceit. And while I believe the Nation of Islam does not explicitly teach that white people are inferior to black people, before Malcolm X changed his views, he did. Yeah, **** the Nation of Islam.

http://i1058.photobucket.com/albums/...ps7acd0adf.jpg

"Goodbye"

- Morrissey

Granny Weatherwax was often angry. She considered it one of her strong points. Genuine anger was one of the world’s great creative forces. But you had to learn how to control it. That didn’t mean you let it trickle away. It meant you dammed it, carefully, let it develop a working head, let it drown whole valleys of the mind and then, just when the whole structure was about to collapse, opened a tiny pipeline at the base and let the iron-hard stream of wrath power the turbines of revenge.
-Wyrd Sisters, Terry Pratchett

Travel and tell no one, live a true love story and tell no one, live happily and tell no one, people ruin beautiful things.
-Khalil Gibran

There is a vitality, a life force, an energy, a quickening that is translated through you into action, and because there is only one of you in all of time, this expression is unique. And if you block it, it will never exist through any other medium and it will be lost. The world will not have it. It is not your business to determine how good it is nor how valuable nor how it compares with other expressions. It is your business to keep it yours clearly and directly, to keep the channel open. You do not even have to believe in yourself or your work. You have to keep yourself open and aware to the urges that motivate you.
Martha Graham

If by intellectual you mean somebody who works only with his head and not with his hands, then the bank clerk is an intellectual and Michelangelo is not. And today, with a computer, everybody is an intellectual. So I don’t think it has anything to do with someone’s profession or with someone’s social class. According to me, an intellectual is anyone who is creatively producing new knowledge. A peasant who understands that a new kind of graft can produce a new species of apples has at that moment produced an intellectual activity. Whereas the professor of philosophy who all his life repeats the same lecture on Heidegger doesn’t amount to an intellectual. Critical creativity—criticizing what we are doing or inventing better ways of doing it—is the only mark of the intellectual function.
-Umberto Eco, “The Art of Fiction, No. 197”, The Paris Review (Summer 2008, No. 185)

And yet
to wine, to opium even, I prefer
the elixir of your lips on which love flaunts itself;
and in the wasteland of desire
your eyes afford the wells to slake my thirst.
Charles Baudelaire, Les Fleurs du Mal

And *spins a wheel* here's an ancient curse:

Iam vos ego nomine vero
Eliciam, Stygiasque canes in luce superna
Destituam: per busta sequar, per funera custos;
Expellam tumulis, abigam vos omnibus urnis.
-
Now I will lure you
by your true names,
and Stygian hounds in the light of day
forsake: through pyres I will pursue you, through burials your jailer;
I will hurl you from barrows, I will drive you from every urn.
-Lucan, Pharsalia 6.732-35

khalil gibran is my bitch <3

If the fabric that separates earth and eternity is so threadbare, a chute to hell yawning open beneath your feet at any moment, then it makes sense to name your roads Gethsemane or Golgotha, Sinai or Calvary. Set aside even common land as hallowed. There is no bright line between now and forever.
-Joni Tevis, “The Lay of the Land,” in The World is on Fire: Scrap, Treasure, and Songs of Apocalypse

"Monster” is derived from the Latin noun monstrum, “divine portent,” itself formed on the root of the verb monere, “to warn.” It came to refer to living things of anomalous shape or structure, or to fabulous creatures like the sphinx who were composed of strikingly incongruous parts, because the ancients considered the appearance of such beings to be a sign of some impending supernatural event. Monsters, like angels, functioned as messengers and heralds of the extraordinary. They served to announce impending revelation, saying, in effect, “Pay attention; something of profound importance is happening."
-My Words to Victor Frankenstein: by Susan Stryker

I sometimes fear that people might think that fascism arrives in fancy dress worn by grotesques and monsters as played out in endless re-runs of the Nazis. Fascism arrives as your friend. It will restore your honour, make you feel proud, protect your house, give you a job, clean up the neighbourhood, remind you of how great you once were, clear out the venal and the corrupt, remove anything you feel is unlike you…It doesn’t walk in saying, “Our programme means militias, mass imprisonments, transportations, war and persecution.”
— Michael Rosen

Can the hungry go on a hunger strike? Non-violence is a piece of theatre. You need an audience. What can you do when you have no audience? People have the right to resist annihilation.
— Arundhati Roy

A few I really enjoyed from "The Ocean at the End of the Lane":

“Adults follow paths. Children explore. Adults are content to walk the same way, hundreds of times, or thousands; perhaps it never occurs to adults to step off the paths, to creep beneath rhododendrons, to find the spaces between fences."

“I do not miss childhood, but I miss the way I took pleasure in small things, even as greater things crumbled. I could not control the world I was in, could not walk away from things or people or moments that hurt, but I took joy in the things that made me happy.”

“A story only matters, I suspect, to the extent that the people in the story change.”

“Nothing's ever the same," she said. "Be it a second later or a hundred years. It's always churning and roiling. And people change as much as oceans.”

An underappreciated gem from Nea.

“I am closest of all to happiness—although I won’t attempt to define just what it is—when I turn away from the window and am aware, with the edge of my consciousness, that a moment ago I was not here, there was simply the world outside the window, and something beautiful and incomprehensible, something which there is absolutely no need to ‘comprehend,’ existed for a few seconds instead of the usual swarm of thoughts, of which one, like a locomotive, pulls all the others after it, absorbs them all and calls itself ‘I’.”
― Victor Pelevin, The Yellow Arrow

http://www.musicbanter.com/lounge/17...ml#post1798619

#16

Jane Eyre:

You shall tear yourself away, none shall help you: you shall, yourself, pluck out your right eye: yourself cut off your right hand: your heart shall be the victim; and you, the priest, to transfix it.

‘You think all existence lapses in as quiet a flow as that in which your youth has hitherto slid away. Floating on with closed eyes and muffled ears, you neither see the rocks bristling not far off in the bed of the flood, nor hear the breakers boil at their base. But I tell you–and you may mark my words–you will come some day to a craggy pass of the channel, where the whole of life’s stream will be broken up into whirl and tumult, foam and noise: either you will be dashed to atoms on crag points, or lifted up and borne on by some master wave into a calmer current–as I am now.’

My nerves vibrated to those low-spoken words as they had never vibrated to thunder–my blood felt their subtle violence as it had never felt frost or fire: but I was collected, and in no danger of swooning. I looked at Mr. Rochester: I made him look at me. His whole face was colourless rock: his eye was both spark and flint. He disavowed nothing; he seemed as if he would defy all things. Without speaking; without smiling; without seeming to recognise in me a human being, he only twined my waist with his arm, and riveted me to his side.

‘I never met your likeness. Jane: you please me, and you master me–you seem to submit, and I like the sense of pliancy you impart; and while I am twining the soft, silken skein round my finger, it sends a thrill up my arm to my heart. I am influenced–conquered; and the influence is sweeter than I can express; and the conquest I undergo has a witchery beyond any triumph I can win.’

‘Good angels be my guard! She comes from the other world–from the abode of people who are dead; and tells me so when she meets me alone here in the gloaming! If I dared I’d touch you to see if you are substance or shadow, you elf!–but I’d as soon offer to take hold of a blue ignis fatuus light in a marsh.’