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Random Quotes

“The new culture that has emerged is the first in history to believe that patterns of society must be subordinate to patterns of the intellect.  The one dominating question of this century has been, ‘Are the social patterns of our world going to run our intellectual life, or is our intellectual life going to run our social patterns?’  And in that battle, the intellectual patterns have won.”

-Robert Pirsig, Lila
“That night they were visited with a plague of hail out of a faultless sky and the horses shied and moaned and the men dismounted and sat upon the ground with their saddles over their heads while the hail leaped in the sand like small lucent eggs concoted alchemically out of the desert darkness.  When they resaddled and rode on they went for miles through cobbled ice while a polar moon rose like a blind cat’s eye over the rim of the world…”

-Cormac McCarthy, Blood Meridian or the Evening Redness in the west”

“The other town, the one that exactly resembles our town, lies just beyond the north woods.”

-Steven Millhauser, Dangerous Laughter

“Look at the windshield,” I said.  “Is that rain or isn’t it?”

“I’m only telling you what they said.”

“Just because it’s on the radio doesn’t mean we have to suspend belief in the evidence of our senses.”

“Our senses?  Our senses are wrong a lot more often than they’re right.  This has been proven in the laboratory.  Don’t you know about all those theorems that say nothing is what it seems?  There’s no past, present or future outside our own mind.  The so-called laws of motion are a big hoax.  Even sound can trick the mind.  Just because you don’t hear a sound doesn’t mean it’s not out there.  Dogs can hear it.  Other animals.  And I’m sure there are sounds even dogs can’t hear.  But they exist in the air, in waves.  Maybe they never stop.  High, high, high-pitched.  Coming from somewhere.”

“Is it raining,” I said, “or isn’t it?”

“I wouldn’t want to have to say.”

“What if someone held a gun to your head?”

“Who, you?”

-Don Delillo, White Noise

“First he sold newspapers.  It was because he wanted to do something, he himself, standing in the city, shouting about what was happening in the world.  He used to shout so loud, and he used to need to shout so much, that he would forget he was supposed to be selling papers; he would get the idea that he was only supposed to shout, to make people understand what was going on.  He used to go through the city like an alley cat, prowling all over the place, into saloons, upstairs into whore houses, into gambling joints, to see: their faces, the faces of those who were alive with him on the earth, and the expressions of their faces, and their forms, the faces of old whores, and the way they talked, and the smell of all the ugly places, and the drabness of all the old and rotting buildings, all of it, of his time and his life, a  part of him.  He prowled through the city, seeing and smelling, talking, shouting about the big news, inhaling and exhaling, blood moving to the rhythm of the sea, coming and going, to the shore of self and back again to selflessness, inhale and newness, exhale and new death, and the boy in the city, walking through it like an alley cat, shouting headlines.”

-William Saroyan, Resurrection of a Life


Masters Of War

Come you masters of war
You that build all the guns
You that build the death planes
You that build the big bombs
You that hide behind walls
You that hide behind desks
I just want you to know
I can see through your masks

You that never done nothin’
But build to destroy
You play with my world
Like it’s your little toy
You put a gun in my hand
And you hide from my eyes
And you turn and run farther
When the fast bullets fly

Like Judas of old
You lie and deceive
A world war can be won
You want me to believe
But I see through your eyes
And I see through your brain
Like I see through the water
That runs down my drain

You fasten the triggers
For the others to fire
Then you set back and watch
When the death count gets higher
You hide in your mansion
As young people’s blood
Flows out of their bodies
And is buried in the mud

You’ve thrown the worst fear
That can ever be hurled
Fear to bring children
Into the world
For threatening my baby
Unborn and unnamed
You ain’t worth the blood
That runs in your veins

How much do I know
To talk out of turn
You might say that I’m young
You might say I’m unlearned
But there’s one thing I know
Though I’m younger than you
Even Jesus would never
Forgive what you do

Let me ask you one question
Is your money that good
Will it buy you forgiveness
Do you think that it could
I think you will find
When your death takes its toll
All the money you made
Will never buy back your soul

And I hope that you die
And your death’ll come soon
I will follow your casket
In the pale afternoon
And I’ll watch while you’re lowered
Down to your deathbed
And I’ll stand o’er your grave
‘Til I’m sure that you’re dead

Copyright ©1963

You untethered blimp of potential, flitting to hallway’s corners, areas unshakable by earthquake, ingesting weighty objects of association of feelings, a lone choice, the solace of your meshy, anchor-free, swung wide, self-classified condition.  There, above the underside of a reeking, pity-inducing crevice, with only your self’s servitude simmering socratic symbolism, you find the time never to sleep.  And what is piece to you, if not, upon gaging, a stair above the spotted linoleum floor’s foundation, argument, sexless twin sister of rivalry, shuffler of power, satisfaction’s lonely effigy.   But, whether abstracting, undulating above the cement bed on inaction, pursuing an enclosed offer to no one but alone, sea-sawing, generating submersibal patterns, concluding, marinating in potential of sandstorm, you can’t manage, while managing, the right, the pill of nature, to shed old skin.  Unfathoming countless pencil tics, the me factory gone upwards, those potentials may be stamped into quantification.  Rightfully, with sly mobility of, nonetheless wincing, pergatory’s cartoon agent, reruns, the white noise of dull hum, static defense system, sensory clogs of colored variety, bar genuine query, children’s society.  The conflict, long running, something of a classic breeding, purposes not depth of height, discovery catalogs, elemental, omnipotent, emphathy, but, forthrightly, low waves of safety’s frequencies, emitted habit enforcement, trust dumbers, remembered imagined potential, fizzles and burps a steady win.


Characater A:  Short, fat and bald male.  This person is extremely attentive, focused, determined and relatively dispassionate.  Judging by the words this person chooses and the way this person carries himself, it is obvious that he is proud of his own education.  The technical terms and strictly informal speech used by this man point towards an upper-class lifestyle.
Character B:  Tall and lanky male.  Lost in thought, trying to concentrate, this guy ultimately has a hard time concentrating.  He desperately wants to write, but keeps getting tripped up on his own thoughts.  Judging by the way this person dresses in old clothes, it seems he is poor, although he does speak with an air of intelligence when he can focus.

B:  Maybe I can have them starting at the end, squaring off on the edge of a cliff, and right before one of them looses footing and drops to the rocky shore below, we can go back in time to see where it all began…
A:  If you don’t mind me saying–and only because it’s my job and I’m trying to save you some trouble, that idea has already been executed.  The cliff scene has been used in a number of films, cartoons, children’s adventure stories and comic books.  The interweaving of time plot device is evident in more recent films.  Most of them popular, yet very poorly reviewed.
B:  Ok, alright.  What about a guy who has an identity crisis…One of his personalities has a corporate job, while the other is a corporate terrorist!
A:  Before you start working your magic and getting all specific, you should probably be aware of the film “Fight Club” starring Brad Pitt and Edward Norton.  While this movie may be on the top ten favorites list of every college student in America, few can tell you why, and fewer have read more than ten books.
B:  Alright, this guy, a misfit, wanders around a city, and—
A:  The Catcher in the Rye.
B:  A sociopath decides to—
B:  The Stranger.
A:  Two People—
B:  Romeo and Juliet.
A:  What do you want from me!  What are you waiting for?!
B:  Are you quoting the pulp horror classic Scream, or is your question directed at me, sir?
A:  You!  Why can’t you let me write!  Once I get started I know I’ll come up with something original.  If you could just let me finish one idea, I’d be on my way.
B:  Original?  Boy, there is no such thing as original.  I am a trained professional, here to perform my job.
A:  What job?  I thought you were a janitor, talking to your self.  How did you get in here?
B:  Silence, pathetic mortal!  My brain is the world’s most powerful computer, a database filled with every story, movie, poem, and piece of media that can be found on TV, in movie theaters and in all the dusty libraries of the world.  I am so efficient that I can detect a regurgitated idea from only a few brief words.
A:  Is that so?
B:  But of course.
A:  Oh yeah…well, an archaeologist—
B:  Indiana Jones.
A:  Dammit!
B:  Haha.  Yes, nothing can surprise me.  It’s quite safe to say I lead a pleasant life, being free from the stress of pesky surprises and all.

somebody had an idea

to force monkeys across the surface

of windy places

where land mines sleep underground


it would have been too cruel

* * * * *

A Killer Whale, procured by Marine World from the Indian Ocean,

had the best of lives.

“Martia,” the tank manager named her.

Thousands of pounds of dead fish were fed to her.

The fish even had special vitamins mashed into them.

Everything was taken care for Martia.

Nobody could say for sure why she bit Craig, her trainer.

The good life over, they had no choice but to let her go her own way.

* * * * *

Dogs wear sweaters. Hats. Mittens. Shoes. Sweater vests. Sunglasses. Backpacks. Bibs. Training bras. Fanny packs. Handkerchiefs. Beanies. Watches. Socks. Jean shorts. Swim trunks.

Trust me. I saw a commercial where one ordered some shit online.

One Scene

Elliot: Please, I’m asking you—please—can I have it?
Adrian: …Nah.
Eliot: Wait. Just hang on a second. I don’t mean “have”. I just need to borrow it for tonight only.
Adrian: Said no.
Elliot: What if I give you my word that I will have it back to you by tomorrow before you even wake up?
Adrian: Fuck that.
Elliot: Please, Adrian. I’m asking you to let me borrow it for one evening and I swear I’ll have it back before noon tomorrow…and…um…
Adrian: What. I’m listening.
Elliot: I’ll think about buying you beer. Ok, can I grab it now?
Adrian: Jesus fucking Christ. You’re the definition of a hypocrite. You know that, right?
Elliot: Just give me the DVD!
Adrian: Pathetic. Ass hole. I’m 16 and I’m smarter than you…or at least I have more pride.
Elliot: I’m doing this to help people like you!
Adrian: Yes. Help. Borrow a Sex Pistols documentary and save the world.
Elliot: I need you to forget about the image you’ve created for yourself and do me a tiny favor. (Under his breath) Shit.
Adrian: Shit? Yes. That’s definitely what you have always been. At least I can say I’m conscious of my decision to be shit.
Elliot: How often—seriously, can you even remember—do I ask you for anything?
Adrian: It’s not so much your groveling that bugs me—actually, it’s as entertaining as it is rare. What gets me is you think you have so much power. You and Dad would make good celebrity life coaches…No, better yet: pet therapists. You guys have already fucked up enough human beings.
Elliot: So what are you saying? I’ve consistently tried to help people. Giving me a documentary about the popularity of punk music can help others too. If you’re a true Nihilist, why should it matter if we discuss the growth in youth apathy? Shouldn’t it not affect you either way? Unless you’re a hypocrite of course.
Adrian: I don’t have to subscribe to some official label. It’s your job to waste energy on judging and classifying people. I’m trash. Yeah. Trash is fine.
Elliot: Alright then Mr. Trash, I’ll just be borrowing this—
Adrian: Hold on Elliot…who are you showing this to?
Elliot: Well it was going to be a group discussion, originally.
Adrian: So who is it?
Elliot: You call me names for caring, but the smallest things set you off. You’re supposed to be trouble-free trash, remember?
Adrian: Fuck that! Who’s seeing this!
Elliot: I’ll tell you once it is in my hands.
Adrian: It will be in your hands once there’s a bottle of Jim Beam in mine.
Elliot: I said beer!
Adrian: What the fuck difference does it make you cowardly, wannabe Christian, hypocrite ass—
Elliot: Justine, alright!
Adrian: Wait a minute…
Elliot: Do you understand what I’m trying to do?
Adrian: This is some bullshit joke to teach me a moral…right?
Elliot: No Adrian. She’s trying to improve her life. She’s been attending our youth group meetings. We’ve been talking about contemporary issues and we need your DVD for a presentation she’s going to make.
Adrian: I can’t believe you guys are doing this to me.
Elliot: Come on, do I even need to say it? I mean, if you’re worried about that. I am the head organizer in the church’s youth league, not to mention she is your age. I mean—I want you to know I realize you guys had something and I respect that. It might not have been meaningful, but you’re my bro and—
Adrian: Leave my room and go fuck yourself with a cactus.
Elliot: I hate to say it, but this is so typical Adrian: responding to my fight against negativity by hurling negativity at me.
Adrian: What are you trying to prove? You want to save someone who I actually cared about and therefore corrupted? All you want is Mom and Dad’s approval to show them you’re the hero. Maybe they’ll kick me out after all.
Elliot: Why can’t you understand that I’m helping people! I’m trying to help the community!
Adrian: You’re going to watch a movie alone with my ex-girlfriend because it’s you’re destiny to be a piece of shit! Why can’t you let me have one thing of my own! Something you won’t molest with your moral bullshit!
Elliot: My intentions are positive and this conversation is over. Now hand me the DVD from your desk or I will talk Dad into shipping you off to bible camp this summer.
Adrian: Fuckin hate you Elliot. Leave her alone!
Elliot: No! She asked for my help! Why do you care? Weren’t you the one who exposed her to marijuana and binge drinking in the first place? She already had to use an inhaler everyday for her asthma and you make her smoke toxins? What do you care about her?
Adrian: I admit we experimented together. I can’t believe I never saw…(beat) you know…
Elliot: What? What is it?
Adrian: You’ve got a small point though.
Elliot: Excuse me?
Adrian: Well, as you know, I have experience with…Nihilism. And I can say that the music and the lifestyle is fun.
Elliot: Right.
Adrian: But you could say it gets old after a while. Don’t get me wrong, I would never go around preaching at people, telling them to be more like me…but it is depressing. I’ll admit that.
Elliot: That’s really great bud.
Adrian: You know what. Fuck it, I mean, forget it. Take the DVD. It’s yours.
Elliot: Thanks! You have no idea how much good this will do.
Adrian: You’re right. There’s no way for me to see how much it helps because I’ve never been to one of you youth meetings. If you don’t mind, I think I’d like to come with you tonight.


Amazon wish list…admit it. you want to buy this stuff for me.