Crane Machine Quotes

At present there are only two land-based cranes in the world that could lift weights of this magnitude. At the very frontiers of construction technology, these are both vast, industrialized machines, with booms reaching more than 220 feet into the air, which require on-board counterweights of 160 tons to prevent them from tipping over. The preparation-time for a single lift is around six weeks and calls for the skills of specialized teams of up to 20 men.13 In other words, modern builders with all the advantages of high-tech engineering at their disposal, can barely hoist weights of 200 tons. Was it not, therefore, somewhat surprising that the builders at Giza had hoisted such weights on an almost routine basis?

Put your glasses on mate ….. Come down from there, you’re gonna kill yourself …. Well, what does your Method Statement say? …. Right, let’s get you re-inducted. You need a reminder of site rules ….. Where are your outriggers, mate? ….. Put your glasses on ….. Put your glasses on …. Put your glasses on …. Oh, they steam up, do they? I’ve never heard that one before …. Where’s your mask? If you breathe this shit in you’re going to kill yourself. Silicosis is incurable ….. Right STOP! Do not reverse another inch without a banksman ….. Don’t put your glasses on just because you see me walk around the corner. They won’t protect MY eyes …. Hook yourself on, what’s the matter with you? Are all you scaffolders superhuman or something? ….. Put your glasses on ….. Oi! What stops me walking right in there? Where’s your barriers and signage? ….. Oi! I’m getting showered in fucking sparks here. And so is that can of petrol ….. Put your glasses on …. Where’s the flashback arrestor on this bottle of propane? ….. Hey, pal, stop welding until you’ve sheeted up ….. What are you doing climbing up there? Where’s your supervisor? What did he say about access in this morning’s Safe Start briefing? Nothing? Right, he can sit through another induction tomorrow ….. Where are the retaining pins to the joint clamps in this concrete pump line? SEAMUS! Fucking deal with this, will you? ….Put your glasses on …. Hey! Hey! Come here! Why have you got a nail instead of an ‘R’ clip to the quick-hitch system on your excavator bucket? NO! IT WON’T DO! WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU? If that bucket falls on someone they’re not going to get up again. And you trust a fucking nail to hold it in position! Take this machine out of service immediately until you’ve got the proper ‘R’ clip! ….. Put your glasses on …. Where’s the edge protection. Who removed the edge protection? Right, let me phone for a scaffolder ….. Put your glasses on ….. Oi! Get out from under there! Never, ever stand underneath a suspended load. Even if all the equipment’s been inspected, which it obviously has, you can never trust the crane driver. He can be taken ill suddenly ….. Come here, mate, let’s have a little chat. Why are you working on Fall Arrest? You’re supposed to be working on Fall Restraint (FR ‘restrains’ you going near the perimeter edge of the building, FA ‘arrests’ your fall if, well, if you fall. If you’re hanging off a building we’ve got less than ten minutes to reach you before you start going into toxic shock brought on by suspension trauma. In other words, we need a Rescue Plan, which is why we’d prefer people work on Fall Restraint)

to move. More gunfire. Although his vision was dimmed, Alex saw two more grenades arc through the air. They landed next to one of the ships and exploded, a huge fireball of flame. Two of Sarov’s men were lifted into the air. At the same time, two or even three machine guns began to chatter simultaneously. There were screams. More flames. Conrad loomed over him. He seemed to have forgotten what was happening in the shipyard. Or perhaps he didn’t care. He tossed aside the metal rod, then slowly pulled up his sleeves. Finally he dropped down so that he was sitting on Alex’s chest, one knee on either side. His hands closed around Alex’s neck. Gently, enjoying what he was doing, he began to squeeze. Alex felt fingers as hard as iron clamp shut on his throat. He couldn’t breathe. There were already black spots in front of his eyes. Straining past Conrad, he saw something moving toward him. It was the magnetic disc. Conrad had left the controls on in the cabin in his haste to get over to Alex, and the arm of the crane was still swinging around. There was a sudden, loud clang. The

Poet is Priest Money has reckoned the soul of America Congress broken thru to the precipice of Eternity the president built a War machine which will vomit and rear Russia out of Kansas The American Century betrayed by a mad Senate which no longer sleeps with its wife. Franco has murdered Lorca the fairy son of Whitman just as Maykovsky committed suicide to avoid Russia Hart Crane distinguished Platonist committed suicide to cave in the wrong America just as millions of tons of human wheat were burned in secret caverns under the White House while India starved and screamed and ate mad dogs full of rain and mountains of eggs were reduced to white powder in the halls of Congress no godfearing man will walk there again because of the stink of the rotten eggs of America and the Indians of Chiapas continue to gnaw their vitaminless tortillas aborigines of Australia perhaps gibber in the eggless wilderness and I rarely have an egg for breakfast tho my work requires infinite eggs to come to birth in Eternity eggs should be eaten or given to their mothers and the grief of the countless chickens of America is expressed in the screaming of her comedians over the radio

Bag that box for me," he called out to Crane as he ran back to the main house with the key, pushing through the group of startled monks. He clambered back down the basement stairs, sneezing again on the way, then poised the key in front of the lock. He slid the key in, finessing it a little side to side, muttering a short prayer to anyone or anything that could turn this damn case around, whether the entity the monks dedicated their lives to, the washing machine daemon, or the minor Sumerian god who lived in Ron Safari's hair.

There’s a reason the phrase “the shit hits the fan” is such a popular way to express a complete and total mess. Because really, what other image could you conjure up that encapsulates the absolute, disgusting mess you’re dealing with when feces hits a dispersal machine like that?

Nothing matters except what you decide to make matter and so I could just say--poof--I don't matter to Andrew and I don't and it's all nothing. And he doesn't matter to me. And all the little awkward clumsy little mechanical machinations? All those things we do in our minds? None of those matter either. Especially those. So it's not a sad thing like, 'Oh boo-hoo, the world has no meaning, what a drag,' but more like, 'Hey! Nothing matters!

Shirt" The back, the yoke, the yardage. Lapped seams, The nearly invisible stitches along the collar Turned in a sweatshop by Koreans or Malaysians Gossiping over tea and noodles on their break Or talking money or politics while one fitted This armpiece with its overseam to the band Of cuff I button at my wrist. The presser, the cutter, The wringer, the mangle. The needle, the union, The treadle, the bobbin. The code. The infamous blaze At the Triangle Factory in nineteen-eleven. One hundred and forty-six died in the flames On the ninth floor, no hydrants, no fire escapes— The witness in a building across the street Who watched how a young man helped a girl to step Up to the windowsill, then held her out Away from the masonry wall and let her drop. And then another. As if he were helping them up To enter a streetcar, and not eternity. A third before he dropped her put her arms Around his neck and kissed him. Then he held Her into space, and dropped her. Almost at once He stepped to the sill himself, his jacket flared And fluttered up from his shirt as he came down, Air filling up the legs of his gray trousers— Like Hart Crane’s Bedlamite, “shrill shirt ballooning.” Wonderful how the pattern matches perfectly Across the placket and over the twin bar-tacked Corners of both pockets, like a strict rhyme Or a major chord. Prints, plaids, checks, Houndstooth, Tattersall, Madras. The clan tartans Invented by mill-owners inspired by the hoax of Ossian, To control their savage Scottish workers, tamed By a fabricated heraldry: MacGregor, Bailey, MacMartin. The kilt, devised for workers To wear among the dusty clattering looms. Weavers, carders, spinners. The loader, The docker, the navvy. The planter, the picker, the sorter Sweating at her machine in a litter of cotton As slaves in calico headrags sweated in fields: George Herbert, your descendant is a Black Lady in South Carolina, her name is Irma And she inspected my shirt. Its color and fit And feel and its clean smell have satisfied Both her and me. We have culled its cost and quality Down to the buttons of simulated bone, The buttonholes, the sizing, the facing, the characters Printed in black on neckband and tail. The shape, The label, the labor, the color, the shade. The shirt.

By Inari’s left nut sack!” Iris exclaimed. “What is that?” “That,” Kotohime did not take her eyes off the metallic creature, whose red-visored face craned around to look at them, “is one of the machines that Kirihime and I fought when Heather-san was injured.” Kotohime’s words forced everyone into silence. In a situation like this, none of them knew what to say. “Hawa.” Except for Camellia.

vice president, and secretary of the treasury beam down from the walls. Visitors pass a sequence of photographs and paintings detailing the history of paper money in the United States and culminating with a life-size re-creation of President Lincoln signing the legislation authorizing the federal government to print money. At the end of the long corridor, visitors watch a short video on the history of paper money, after which guides divide them into small groups before they enter the work area. These small groups wend their way through the carefully marked visitors’ corridors past glass-enclosed galleries from which they can watch the sheets of dollars being printed, examined, cut, and stacked as the guides dispense a constant flow of facts about America’s money: The dollar is printed on textile paper made by the Crane Company using a mixture of 75 percent cotton and 25 percent linen with a polyester security thread. The printing machines are made by Germans and Italians. Nearly half of the bills printed in a day are one-dollar notes, and 95 percent of the bills are used to replace worn-out bills. The average life span of a bill varies from eighteen months for the one-dollar note to an ancient nine years for a one-hundred-dollar note. A bill can be folded four thousand times before it tears.

If a group or an organization can work like a machine with access to plenty of resources and has no bias towards negative emotions, goal setting can STILL be useful. As individuals though, our lives are highly unpredictable and we have a huge tendency towards being overly emotional about the result. The wrong result can put you into a deep depression, and the rare, “right result” inflate your ego far more than it is good for you, and eventually mess up your life anyway. Let me explain even further. A machine or a crane can work for far more hours, with far more power at a far more efficient pace than any human without getting tired, getting hungry, getting restless or feeling frustrated. Can a human do it? NO! Because we are built differently! The same kind of outcome driven goal setting that may work for organizations is usually a terrible idea for individuals. Here is what you should remember - If you are setting goals, especially goals where the results depend greatly on factors outside your control, the only ones you should set are the ones that focus on the ACTIONS you will take.

What about the black dragon?” the first-year next to Jack asks. “There’s one here, right?” Jack’s face lights up. “I want that one.” “Not that it’s going to matter.” Professor Kaori flicks his wrist and Sgaeyl disappears, and a massive black dragon takes her place. Even the illusion is bigger, making me crane my neck slightly to see its head. “But just to appease your curiosity, since this is the only time you’ll ever see him, here is the only other black besides General Melgren’s.” “He’s huge,” Rhiannon says. “And is that a clubtail?” “No. A morningstartail. He has the same bludgeoning power of a clubtail, but those spikes will eviscerate a person just as well as a daggertail.” “Best of both worlds,” Jack calls out. “He looks like a killing machine.” “He is,” Professor Kaori answers. “And honestly, I haven’t seen him in the last five years, so this image is more than a little outdated. But since we have him up here, what can you tell me about black dragons?” “They’re the smartest and most discerning,” Aurelie calls out. “They’re the rarest,” I add in. “There hasn’t been one born in the last…century.” “Correct.” Professor Kaori spins the illusion again, and I’m met with a pair of glaring yellow eyes. “They’re also the most cunning. There’s no such thing as outsmarting a black dragon.

We could make an epic catalog of male achievements, from paved roads, indoor plumbing, and washing machines to eyeglasses, antibiotics, and disposable diapers. We enjoy fresh, safe milk and meat, and vegetables and tropical fruits heaped in snowbound cities. When I cross the George Washington Bridge or any of America’s great bridges, I think: men have done this. Construction is a sublime male poetry. When I see a giant crane passing on a flatbed truck, I pause in awe and reverence, as one would for a church procession. What power of conception, what grandiosity: these cranes tie us to ancient Egypt, where monumental architecture was first imagined and achieved. If civilization had been left in female hands, we would still be living in grass huts. A contemporary woman clapping on a hard hat merely enters a conceptual system invented by men. Capitalism is an art form, an Apollonian fabrication to rival nature. It is hypocritical for feminists and intellectuals to enjoy the pleasures and conveniences of capitalism while sneering at it. Even Thoreau’s Walden was just a two-year experiment. Everyone born into capitalism has incurred a debt to it. Give Caesar his due.

The train was moving too fast to see much beyond the pines stepping up rock walls, but she knew from memory the bird species that would be endemic. She could picture the colored plates in her textbooks- the greater roadrunner, with its shaggy pompadour crest; the yellow eyes of burrowing owls; the shiny, jet-black plumage of the phainopepla, which gobbled up hundreds of mistletoe berries a day. She'd missed the Festival of the Cranes by only a few weeks. How tempting, to find herself just hours from Bosque del Apache, and the Rio Grande. She imagined lying on her stomach, binoculars trained on the sandhill cranes and snow geese in their winter quarters, watching in wonder the mass morning liftoffs and evening fly-ins. It was an old desire, but even now, though she knew the impossibility of it, it persisted; the world as one giant aviary she ached to see, all of its feathered inhabitants in their natural environment, a thousand times better to hear their cries dampened by verdant jungle foliage or echoed across the wells of canyons than to listen to abbreviated bits of captured songs emanating from a machine.

The day the earth-moving machines arrived, it was as if aliens had invaded Earth. Overnight they appeared, diggers with huge scoops, plodding their slow and ancient ways across the landscape. By the next week they had multiplied and evolved into diverse forms—cranes with long arms, bulldozers and levellers, an assortment of lorries. All day they worked towards some unseen design, creating and removing debris, their latticework of tracks remaking and writing over the space. Untenanted and vulnerable, the attap huts offered no resistance.

My father works in a factory, and has done so for the past 14 years. All of their workers have to wear the same outfits—navy blue coveralls, brown steel toe boots—and they have to produce so much work each night. The company is telling them how to look, how to work, and sometimes how to think. Dad comes home each morning and he is still running like that machine. Before he began this job, he was much livelier. I never get to see the Dad that I had before age six. His constantly having to work as a part of a machine has stripped him of his personality and happiness. In another instance at the factory, he was injured on the job by a crane, and was instantly replaced by someone else on the line because the job could be done by “anyone.

The end of the summer and the autumn of 1986 was the period of the Great Building. Concrete plants were built in Chernobyl and in the Station's neighborhood. Huge machines milled compositions of concrete, sand, and crushed stone constantly. Every two minutes, at night and in daylight, powerful petrol tanks with roaring motors ran by the roads to the Station. They were followed by watering machines, which misted the dust in the air so that it wouldn’t spread. Small Chernobyl houses, kept under the cover of fruit gardens and having lost their owners forever, trembled at the thunder of the passing vehicles. At the Station, concrete was flowing like a river. Cranes of the Demagy worked day and night. Workers, engineers, and soldiers labored in four shifts, by sunlight and by searchlight. At the same time, about ten thousand people were working at the ground.