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Quote Me A Piece Of Writing That You Really, Really Love :)

FOR THE CHILDREN - from Turtle Island by Gary Snyder

The rising hills, the slopes,
of statistics
lie before us.
the steep climb
of everything, going up,
up, as we all
go down.

In the next century
or the one beyond that,
they say,
are valleys, pastures,
we can meet there in peace
if we make it

To climb these coming crests
one word to you, to
you and your children:

stay together
learn the flowers
go light
 
Dear Maurice:
Hello. Have a nice day. Yes. Mahalo. Stand back. I have finally returned from the wilderness, where i was chased and tormented by huge radioactive Bobcats for almost 22 weeks. When i finally escaped they put me in a decompression chamber with some people i couldn't recognise, so i went all to pieces and now i can't remember anything or anybody or even who i was, all that time - which was exactly since Groundhog Day, when it started.

the one and only HST - Screwjack
 
That's good thinking there, Cool Breeze. Cool Breeze is a kid with three or four days' beard sitting next to me on the stamped metal bottom of the open back part of a pickup truck. Bouncing along. Dipping and rising and rolling on these rotten springs like a boat. Out the back of the truck the city of San Francisco is bouncing down the hill, at all those endless staggers of bay windows, slums with a view, bouncing and streaming down the hill. One after another, electric signs with neon martini glasses lit up on them, the San Francisco symbol of 'bar' - thousands of neon-magenta martini glasses bouncing and streaming down the hill, and beneath them hundreds, thousands of people wheeling around to look at this freaking crazed ruck we're in, their white faces erupting from their lapels like marshmallows-streaming and bouncing down the hill - and God knows they've got plenty to look at.

Tom Wolfe. The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test
 
To A Spring at Wu-Ling

Ling Chi'ing Chao
(Li I-An)

The wind stops, earth is fragrant with fallen petals.
At the end of the day I am weary to tend my hair;
Things remain, but he is not, and all is nothing.
I try to speak but the tears will flow.

I hear it said that at the Twin Brook the Spring is still
fair,
And I, too, long to float in a light boat.
Only I fear the 'locust boat' at the Twin Brook,
Cannot move with a freight
Of so much grief.


NSFW:

NOOoooO WHYYYY
:p
 
And if, and only if, you’re very, very lucky, then one night in the silence, in the deep heart of the dark, you’ll hear the distant trickling of the blood in your veins. A weary world of rivers, hauling their pain through the dark heat. The heart like a tom-tom, beating the message that time is running out. You’ll lie there strangely alert. You’ll actually feel the inside of your body, which is your soul, or where your soul is, and a great sadness will engulf you. And from the sadness an itch might begin, the itch of desire for change.

Luke Davies - Candy

Ash. <3
 
Soliloquy for One Dead
Bruce Dawe

Ah, no, Joe, you never knew
the whole of it, the whistling
which is only the wind in the chimney's
smoking belly, the footsteps on the muddy
path that are always somebody else's.
I think of your limbs down there, softly
becoming mineral, the life of grasses,
and the old love of you thrusts the tears
up into my eyes, with the family aware
and looking everywhere else.
Sometimes when summer is over the land,
when the heat quickens the deaf timbers,
and birds are thick in the plumbs again,
my heart sickens, Joe, calling
for the water of your voice and the gone
agony of your nearness. I try hard
to forget, saying: If God wills,
it must be so, because of
His goodness, because---
but the grasshopper memory leaps
in the long thicket, knowing no ease. Ah, Joe,
you never knew the whole of it...
 
Lakeside Hotel - Tanaka Fuyuji

Lakeside hotel:
Gleam in August of young trout in a mountain tarn.

Mountain reflections, clear, tumbling into the tarn:
On my white shirt, the dull rogue glow
Of your silk parasol.
I casually pointing out the yachts on the tarn
To you -- you so beautiful --
Asking you, ' why is a boat feminine?'
You smiling faintly and not answering
And keeping to your talk of Hauptmann's Sunken Bell.
To the sunlight, seeping through white birch-leaves,
Your hair glints in the Southern Cross.
 
IMAYO "Present Mode" from Heike Monogatari

The Buddha himself
Was once a man like us:
We too at the end
Shall become Buddha.
All creatures may share
The nature of Buddha.
How grievous indeed
That this is not known!

Rather then the vows
Of the myriad Buddhas,
The testament
Of the thousand-handed Kannon
Has the greater faith
Powerful in the making
The flowers to blossom
The fruits to ripen,
In a twinkling on limbs
Of trees that are rotten.
 
The Magic Kingdom
Kathleen Graber

And as in the daily casualties of life every man is, as it were, threatened with numberless deaths, so long as it remains uncertain which of them is his fate, I would ask whether it is not better to suffer one and die, than to live in fear of all? —St. Augustine, “City of God.”

This morning, I found on a slip of paper tucked into a book
a list of questions I’d written down years ago to ask the doctor.
What if it has spread? Is it possible I’m crazy? I’ve just returned
from Florida, from visiting my mother’s last sister, who is eighty
& doing fine. At the airport, my flight grounded by a storm,
I bought a magazine, which fell open to a photograph
of three roseate spoonbills tossing down their elegant shadows
on a chartreuse field of fertilizer-production waste.
Two little girls emptied their Ziplocs of Pepperidge Farm Goldfish
onto the carpet & picked them up, one by one, with great delicacy,
before popping them into their mouths. Their mother, outside
smoking, kept an eye on them through the glass. After my cousin died,
my father died & then my brother. Next, my father’s older brother
& his wife. And, finally, after my mother died, I expected
to die myself. And because this happened very quickly
& because these were, really, almost all the people I knew,
I spent each day smashing dishes with one of my uncle’s hammers
& gluing them back together in new ways. It was strange work
& dangerous, even though I tried to protect myself—
wearing a quilted bathrobe & goggles & leather work gloves
& opening all the windows, even in snow, against the vapors
of the industrial adhesives. Most days now I get up late
& brew coffee & the smell rises from the old enamel pot
I’ve had to balance under the dark drip ever since the carafe
that came with the machine shattered in the dishwasher last month.

One morning I found a lump in my breast & my vision narrowed
to a small dot & I began to sweat. My legs & arms felt weak,
& my heart thrashed behind its bars. We were not written
to be safe. In the old tales, the woodcutter’s daughter’s path
takes her, each time, through the dark forest. There are new words
for all of this: a shot of panic becomes the rustle of glucocorticoid
signalling the sympathetic nervous system into a response
regulated by the sensitivity of the hypothalamic-pituitary-adrenal axis.
And, as I go along, these freshly minted charms clatter together
in the tender doeskin of the throat as though the larynx
were nothing if not a sack of amulets tied with a cord & worn
around the neck. But I tell you I sat on the bathroom floor for hours,
trembling. And I can tell you this because the lump was just a lump
& some days now I don’t even dread the end although I know
it will arrive. The garage is filled with buckets of broken china.
The girls chased each other & waved their arms, casting spells,
the trim of their matching gingham dresses the electric pink
of the birds’ wings. They turned each other into princesses
& super-girls & then they pretended to change back.
Oh, no. You forgot to say forever—they took turns repeating
with dramatic dismay, melting into puddles of themselves,
their sandals & sunburned knees vanishing beneath their hems.
 
Mickey: The whole world's comin' to an end, Mal!
Mallory: I see angels, Mickey. They're comin' down for us from heaven. And I see you ridin' a big red horse, and you're driving them horses, whippin' 'em, and the're spitting and frothing all 'long the mouth, and the're coming right at us. And I see the future, and there's no death, 'cause you and I, we're angels...

Mickey: In this day and age a man has to have choices, a man has to have a little bit of variety.
Mallory: What are you talking about, "variety"? Hostages? You wanna fuck some other women now? Is that what you're talking about, Mickey?

Wayne Gale:Any regrets? I mean, three weeks, fifty people killed... not too cool Mickey.
Mickey: Fifty-two, but I don't a lot of time with regret. That's a wasted emotion.

Mickey: You'll never understand, Wayne. You and me, we're not even the same species. I used to be you, then I evolved. From where you're standing, you're a man. From where I'm standing, you're an ape. You're not even an ape. You're a media person. Media's like the weather, only it's man-made weather. Murder? It's pure. You're the one made it impure. You're buying and selling fear. You say "why?" I say "why bother?"

-Natural Born Killers
 
^ i just watched the directors cut the other day. great fucking movie, in my opinion stone's best.
 
Connors nodded towards the pines that acted as a windbreak for the house and covered the flanks of the ridge above. 'How come there are so many trees around here?'
'Bodell' said Volkert. 'He planted them, been doing it for years'
'What does he do with them - cut them down for lumber?'
'Nope. He just keeps putting 'em in'
'Why?' asked Connors
Volkert shrugged. 'I guess he must like trees'
 
There are the rushing waves...
mountains of molecules,
each stupidly minding its own business...
trillions apart
...yet forming white surf in unison.

Ages on ages...
before any eyes could see...
year after year...
thunderously pounding the shore as now.
For whom, for what?
...on a dead planet
with no life to entertain.

Never at rest...
tortured by energy...
wasted prodigiously by the sun...
poured into space.
A mite makes the sea roar.

Deep in the sea,
all molecules repeat
the patterns of another
till complex new ones are formed.
They make others like themselves...
and a new dance starts.

Growing in size and complexity...
living things,
masses of atoms,
DNA, protein...
dancing a pattern ever more intricate.

Out of the cradle
onto dry land...
here it is standing...
atoms with consciousness
...matter with curiosity.

Stands at the sea...
wonders at wondering... I...
a universe of atoms...
an atom in the universe.

Richard Feynman (Physicist)

Ash. <3
 
"Under the thunder-dark, the cicadas resound. The storm in the sky mounts, but is not yet heard.
The shaft and the flash wait, but are not yet found.

The apples that hang and swell for the late comer,
The simple spell, the rite not for our word,
The kisses not for our mouths,- light the dark summer."
Louise Bogan, "Dark Summer"
From a collection of her works entitled "The Blue Estuaries"

" In the sun born over and over,
I ran my heedless ways,
My wishes raced through the house high hay
And nothing I cared, at my sky blue trades, that time allows
In all his tunefull turning so few and such morning songs
Before the children green and golden
follow him out of grace,"
Dylan Thomas, small part of "Fern Hill"
 
Ayn Rand, The Foutainhead:

“If you learn how to rule one single man’s soul, you can get the rest of mankind. It’s the soul, Peter, the soul. Not whips or swords or fire or guns. That’s why the Caesars, the Attilas, the Napoleons were fools and did not last. We will. The soul, Peter, is that which can’t be ruled. It must be broken. Drive a wedge in, get your fingers on it–and the man is yours. You won’t need a whip–he’ll bring it to you and ask to be whipped. Set him in reverse–and his own mechanism will do your work for you. Use him against himself. Want to know how it’s done? See if I ever lied to you. See if you haven’t heard all this for years, but didn’t want to hear it, and the fault is yours, not mine. There are many ways. Here’s one. Make man feel small. Make him feel guilty. Kill his aspiration and his integrity. That’s difficult. The worst among you gropes for an ideal in his own twisted way. Kill integrity by internal corruption. Use it against itself. Direct it toward a goal destructive of all integrity. Preach selflessness. Tell man that he must live for others. Tell men that altruism is the ideal. Not a single one of them has ever achieved it and not a single one ever will. His every living instinct screams against it. But don’t you see what you accomplish? Man realizes that he’s incapable of what he’s accepted as the noblest virtue–and it gives him a sense of guilt, of sin, of his own basic unworthiness. Since the supreme ideal is beyond his grasp, he gives up eventually all ideal,s all aspiration, all sense of his personal value. He feels himself obliged to preach what he can’t practice. But one can’t be good halfway or honest approximately. To preserve one’s integrity is a hard battle. Why preserve that which one knows to be corrupt already? His soul gives up its self-respect. You’ve got him. He’ll obey. He’ll be glad to obey–because he can’t trust himself, he feels uncertain, he feels unclean. That’s one way. Here’s another. Kill man’s sense of values. Kill his capacity to recognize greatness or to achieve it. Great men can’t be ruled. We don’t want any great men. Don’t deny the conception of greatness. Destroy it from within. The great is the rar,e the difficult, the exceptional. Set up standards of achievement open to all, to the least, to the most inept–and you stop the impetus to effort in all men, great or small. You stop all incentive to improvement, to excellence, to perfection. Don’t set out toraze all shrines–you’ll frighten men. Enshrine mediocrity–and the shrines are razed.”
 
Probably the greatest poem ever written imho (by Dylan Thomas):

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
 
Leonard Schneider Wisdom Dump

And I learned the truth from Lenny Bruce,
That all my wealth won't buy me health
So I smoke a pint of tea a day.

Simon and Garfunkel's A Simple Desultory Philippic
Click to expand...

lenny-bruce-small.jpg


Kids Sniffing Aeroplane Glue

"There were kids eight or nine years old sniffing aeroplane glue, to get high on. These kids are responsible for turning musicians onto a lot of things they never knew about actually. So, I had a fantasy, how it happened. Kid is alone in his room, it's Saturday. Kid is played by George Macready, "Now lets see, I'm all alone in a room and it's Saturday, I'll make an aeroplane, that's what I'll do. Lancaster is a good structural design, I'll get the balsa wood here, cut it out, sand if off. Now a little aeroplane glue, I'll rub it on the rag and... Hey now, ha ha ha. Ohh. I'm getting loaded. Is is possible to get loaded on aeroplane glue? Maybe it's stuffy, I'll call my dog over. Fidika come here darling and smell this rag. Smell it you freaky little doggy. Smell the rag Fidika, Fidika, Fidika!!! He's up there. I've done it. I'm the Louis Pasteur of junkiedom. Out of my skull for 10 cents. Well there's much work to be done now. Horses hoofs to melt down. Noses to get ready." Cut to the toy store. Any toy store. Any neighbourhood Kid walks in. "Hello Chandler, nice store you got here. Gimme a nickels worth of pencils. Big boy tablet. Ju-ju beans. Tailspin Tommy book and 2000 tubes of aeroplane glue."

The Irish

"The thing is, you have a choice of a judge or a jury. You're a smuck, if you ever take the judge, because the thing is you're going to tell him a story to convince him. What kind of shit are you going to tell the judge that he hasn't already heard? You get twelve impressionable people, solid. Now as far as getting a goyish attorney, solid. Because you are that prejudice, who is more likely to murder his daughter and rape her, in a drunken state? An Irish father, an Italian father or a Jewish father? Even the Irish know that the Irish would. So if you are that prejudice and screwed up man, what Jewish father would do that? Are you kidding. What Italian father would do that? It's only the Irish that sell their kids for bottles what a load of bullshit. The Irish are the most persecuted minority group ever. Everyone is always bitching a drunk and would like to thwart a Fardy. Unfortunately for the Irish. Writing came in the fifth century and so they memorised everything and they're genius orators. So when they came over here (United States) they got the gig's in government. They where the heat. They were the rulers. And people got drunk with that man."

Are there any niggers here tonight?

"What did he say? "Are there any niggers here tonight?" Jesus Christ, do you have to get that low for laughs? Have I ever told you about the schwartzer? Or spoke about the moulin john's? Are there any niggers? I know that one nigger that works here I see him back there. Oh there's two niggers, customers. Ah but between those two niggers there's one kike. Thank god for the kike. And two kikes. That's two kikes and three niggers and one spic. One spic, three spics and one mick. One mick one spic one hick, thick, funky, spunky boogie. And there's another kike. Three kikes, three kikes one ginny, one greaseball three greaseballs, two ginny's. One hunky funky lace-curtain Irish mick. Five more niggers. I pass with seven niggers, six spics, five micks, four kikes, three guineas, and one wop. Well, I was just trying to make a point and that is that it's the suppression of the word that gives it the power, the violence, the viciousness. Dig. If President Kennedy would just go on television, and say, "I would like to introduce you to all the niggers in my cabinet," and if he'd just say "nigger nigger nigger nigger nigger" to every nigger he saw, "boogie boogie boogie boogie boogie," "nigger nigger nigger nigger nigger" 'til nigger didn't mean anything any more, then you could never make some 6 year old black kid cry because somebody called him a nigger at school."


“A lot of people say to me, `Why did you kill Christ?' I dunno, it was one of those parties, got out of hand, you know.”
 
Allow your judgments their own silent, undisturbed development, which, like all progress, must come from deep within and cannot be forced or hastened. Everything is gestation and then birthing. To let each impression and each embryo of a feeling come to completion, entirely in itself, in the dark, in the unsayable, the unconscious, beyond the reach of one's own understanding, and with deep humility and patience to wait for the hour when a new clarity is born: this alone is what it means to live as an artist: in understanding as in creating.

In this there is no measuring with time, a year doesn’t matter, and ten years are nothing. Being an artist means: not numbering and counting, but ripening like a tree, which doesn’t force its sap, and stands confidently in the storms of spring, not afraid that afterward summer may not come. It does come. But it comes only to those who are patient, who are there as if eternity lay before them, so unconcernedly silent and vast. I learn it every day of my life, learn it with pain I am grateful for: patience is everything!


From Letters To A Young Poet
by Rainer Maria Rilke
 
More Lenny

The current state of Judaism revealed, Christ and Moses then fly back to New York, to St. Patrick's Cathedral on Sunday, where the bit's grand homily is dispensed right up front, as Christ wonders to Moses what forty Puerto Ricans in Harlem are doing living in one room when this priest has a ring on worth eight grand, and also wonders at the grandeur of the room, why aren't the Puerto Ricans living here? We then switch for the rest of the routine to the altar, where Cardinal Spellman and Bishop Sheehan preside. Here, whispering "Oh Mister Gallagher, Oh Mister Shean," Bruce flashes his brilliant conceit. Spellman and Sheehan are performers like the solo Shakespearean rabbi, but they are a double bill, a vaudeville comedy team like Gallagher & Shean or Smith & Dale. In this act Bishop Sheehan, the second banana (sometimes "played" by Hugh Hubert), runs up to Spellman (sometimes Ed Begley) at the lectern:


"Psst, I wanna talk to you."

"Will you go back to the blackboard and stop bugging me."

"I wanna talk to you... I've got a customer in the back."

"All right put the choir on for ten minutes. What is it?"

"What is it? You'll never guess who's here."

"Who's here?"

"You're not gonna believe me... you're gonna think I've been drinking."


"All right, who's here?"

""Christ and Moses."

"Are you putting me on? Are you sure it's them?"

'Well, I've just seen them in pictures. Moses is a ringer for Charlton Heston."

"Where are they?"

"Standing way in the back."

"Don't look now you idiot, they can see us."

"They're way in the back."

"Did Christ bring the family? What's his mother's name? That's weird, I read the book today."

"I'm so nervous, Mary... "

"Mary what?"

"Mary Hale, no Hail Mary, Hairy Mary, Hail Mary Full of Grace Thompson, they're very thick with the Duponts at Montauk Point.
In an instant belief and spiritual vision are replaced by media images of lesser gods who can see only in sightlines, served by a bumbling priesthood more familiar with the social register than scripture. What was implicit in "Religions, Inc." is here explicit. These buffoon priests don't know and don't believe, and we are launched somewhere between Moliere and Beckett. Having reached these heights of anti-clericalism, Bruce then broadens his aim:
"They're back there?"

"Yes."

"All right. If this ever gets around... it has. Oh Christ, don't look at the front door, the lepers are coming. Sir, would you take the bell off? Thank you very much. Mister, would you pick up your leg, madam, your nose, you dropped? Thank you there. They got Sophie Tucker with Moses, posing. Take that Hebrew National banner down! Mister Jessel, will you get off the Madonna, that's not a statue! All right, give me a direct line to Rome, quickly. Rome? Hello John, Fran in New York. Listen, a couple of the kids dropped in. Yeah, you know them. I can't really talk right now."


"Hello, you know them, one kid is, well, (sings) with the cross of bap-bap. No, not Zorro. Them. That's right. He brought a very attractive Jewish boy with him. We gotta do something... I don't Know, I can't... put 'em up at your place. No, I didn't paint or anything, I got a lot of kids staying over here."

"That's right just get 'em over here, that's all. I don't want to hear about that. All I know is that we're up to our ass in crutches and wheelchairs. Is that good enough for you? The place is ridiculous. Yeah they're in the back, way in the back."

"Of course they're white! Yeah, this is New York, Puerto Ricans stand in the back. Which ones are they Sheehan?"

"The ones that are glowing."
 
Yang Wan-Li
On the cold day of Cold Flood, taking my sons to visit the Ti garden and achieving ten poems

The children will tire of running? - let them to the full!
My old legs ache a little, and I half wish for help.
I cannot know if the flowers ahead are good or not,
So I bid the bees and butterflies to be my outriders.
 
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