Copy As Path Without Quotes

But for anything to be alive, it required motion : the current must run, the record must turn, a person must leave or find another path. Without movement or change, the world became nothing more than a stale copy, and this was the trouble with Ba's elegant calligraphy, his patient life, it was frozen in time.

At present, it is far from clear whether Europe can find a middle path that will enable it to keep its gates open to strangers without being destabilized by people who don’t share its values. If Europe succeeds in finding such a path, perhaps its formula could be copied on the global level. If the European project fails, however, it would indicate that belief in the liberal values of freedom and tolerance is not enough to resolve the cultural conflicts of the world and to unite humankind in the face of nuclear war, ecological collapse, and technological disruption. If Greeks and Germans cannot agree on a common destiny, and if five hundred million affluent Europeans cannot absorb a few million impoverished refugees, what chance does humanity have of overcoming the far deeper conflicts that beset our global civilization?

Wind in a Box" —after Lorca I want to always sleep beneath a bright red blanket of leaves. I want to never wear a coat of ice. I want to learn to walk without blinking. I want to outlive the turtle and the turtle’s father, the stone. I want a mouth full of permissions and a pink glistening bud. If the wildflower and ant hill can return after sleeping each season, I want to walk out of this house wearing nothing but wind. I want to greet you, I want to wait for the bus with you weighing less than a chill. I want to fight off the bolts of gray lighting the alcoves and winding paths of your hair. I want to fight off the damp nudgings of snow. I want to fight off the wind. I want to be the wind and I want to fight off the wind with its sagging banner of isolation, its swinging screen doors, its gilded boxes, and neatly folded pamphlets of noise. I want to fight off the dull straight lines of two by fours and endings, your disapprovals, your doubts and regulations, your carbon copies. If the locust can abandon its suit, I want a brand new name. I want the pepper’s fury and the salt’s tenderness. I want the virtue of the evening rain, but not its gossip. I want the moon’s intuition, but not its questions. I want the malice of nothing on earth. I want to enter every room in a strange electrified city and find you there. I want your lips around the bell of flesh at the bottom of my ear. I want to be the mirror, but not the nightstand. I do not want to be the light switch. I do not want to be the yellow photograph or book of poems. When I leave this body, Woman, I want to be pure flame. I want to be your song. Terrance Hayes, Wind in a Box (Penguin, 2006) When I leave this body, Woman, I want to be pure flame. I want to be your song

Even though copying what’s come before is a guaranteed path to mediocrity, it appears to be a safe choice, and the desire to be safe—to succeed with minimal risk—can infect not just individuals but also entire companies. If we sense that our structures are rigid, inflexible, or bureaucratic, we must bust them open—without destroying ourselves in the process.

The three levels above the human mind that are unknown to this civilization are: Ultimate creativity, or the capacity to create new things in any field and without end; Telepathic communication through space, dimensions and time, or the capacity to extract, implant and modify thought patterns in other forms of life to express finite meanings; Universal channeling, also known as astral traveling, or the capacity to reposition and alter consciousness through the anchoring of personal focus on any coexisting reality. Many have tried those things through the use of psychotropics and for these historical reasons, many are still trying the same now. But without a higher consciousness or capacity to integrate such knowledge, a human of this time will grow insane and even become psychotic. The only way anyone can assimilate these informations is through a gradual self-reflective state as thought by the Buddhists and with the help of writings that help with the integration of these higher truths, and while disintegrating the attachments and traumas of the mind that are causing a filtering and misinterpretation through the senses. Many will stop you from knowing these things by teaching you falsehoods mixed with apparent truths and the more information is spread teaching you the right path, the more lies you will find in the world to counterbalance these possibilities. The highest truths cannot be explained. You will know them when your life is aligned with your results and nobody else knows what you are doing and neither can they understand you or copy what they see you doing.

Some people are natural inventors who prefer to work without the pressure and expectations of the later business phases. Others are ambitious and see innovation as a path toward senior management. Still others are particularly skilled at the management of running an established business, outsourcing, and bolstering efficiencies and wringing out cost reductions. People should be allowed to find the kinds of jobs that suit them best.

What remains? Our children? Homer touched the flame of the candle with his fingers. The answer wasn’t easy to find for him, Achmed’s words still hurt him. He himself had been damned to be without children, unable for this kind of immortality, so he couldn’t do anything but choose another path to immortatlity. Again he reached for his pen. They can look like us. In their reflection we mirror ourselves in a mysterious way. United with those we had loved. In their gestures, in their mimics we happily find ourselves or with sorrow. Friends confirm that our sons and daughters are just like us. Maybe that gives us a certain extension of ourselves when we are no more. We ourselves weren’t the first. We have been made from countless copies that have been before us, just another chimera, always half from our fathers and mothers who are again the half of their parents. So is there nothing unique in us but are we just an endless mixture of small mosaic parts that never endingly exist in us? Have we been formed out of millions of small parts to a complete picture that has no own worth and has to fall into its parts again? Does it even matter to be happy if we found ourselves in our children, a certain line that has been traveling through our bodies for millions of years? What remains of me?

You become a better writer by being fortunate enough to be a good writer who writes every day, who edits ferociously, who worries over every word as if you are laying a path with diamonds. There are no tricks. No short cuts. No magic course or tutor or how to guide. Each book is climbing Everest without oxygen and, if you are talented enough or lucky enough to get published, it is unlikely that your book will sell enough copies to pay you royalties equivalent to a teacher's annual salary. And if you write another book, you start again, you reinvent the wheel, you take another bag of diamonds and lay them one at a time in a new direction. Those who cannot write have as much chance of learning to write as those who can't fly are drawn to clifftops to try and fly.