Dreams Of Trespass Quotes

Nature is woman's best friend,' she [Yasmina] often said. 'If you're having troubles, you just swim in the water, stretch out in a field, or look up at the stars. That's how a woman cures her fears'.

I found myself back in the sepulchral city resenting the sight of people hurrying through the streets to filch a little money from each other, to devour their infamous cookery, to gulp their unwholesome beer, to dream their insignificant and silly dreams. They trespassed upon my thoughts.

Maturity is when you start feeling the motion of zaman (time) as if it is a sensuous caress. p.216

Pessimism is the luxury of the powerful.

But when your situation is hopeless, all you can do is turn the world upside down, transform it according to your wishes, and create anew.

Once I asked Mina why she danced so smoothly while most of the other women made abrupt, jerky movements, and she said that many of the women confused liberation with agitation. 'Some ladies are angry with their lives,' she said 'and so even their dance becomes an expression of that.' Angry women are hostages of their anger. They cannot escape it and set themselves free, which is indeed a sad fate. The worst of prisons is a self-created one. (p.162)

There are many ways to be beautiful. Fighting, swearing, and ignoring tradition could make a women irresistible.

What’s the gun for? (Leta) I would lie and say it’s for bears or snakes, but mostly I use it for trespassers. (Aiden) Wow, Dexter, I’m impressed. Since we’re not in Miami and you haven’t a boat to hide the hacked-up bodies at sea, where are you keeping them? (Leta)

there’s always been heroes, there’s always been villains, the stakes may have changed but really there’s no difference. there’s always been greed and heartbreak and ambition. jealousy, love, trespass and contrition, we’re the same beings that began, still living, in all of our fury and foulness and friction. Everyday odysseys. Dreams vs decisions. The stories are there if you listen.

She would take him to faraway lands to observe foreign ways, so he could get closer to the strangeness within himself.

But Aunt Habiba said not to worry, that everyone had wonderful things hidden inside. The only difference was that some managed to share those wonderful things, and others did not. Those who did not explore and share the precious gifts within went through life feeling miserable, sad, awkward with others, and angry too. You had to develop a talent, Aunt Habiba said, so that you could give something, share and shine. And you developed a talent by working very hard at becoming good at something. It could be anything - singing, dancing, cooking, embroidering, listening, looking, smiling, waiting, accepting, dreaming, rebelling, leaping. 'Anything you can do well can change your life', said Aunt Habiba.

I found myself back in the sepulchral city resenting the sight of people hurrying through the streets to filch a little money from each other, to devour their infamous cookery, to gulp their unwholesome beer, to dream their insignificant and silly dreams. They trespassed upon my thoughts. They were intruders whose knowledge of life was to me an irritating pretence, because I felt so sure they could not possibly know the things I knew. Their bearing, which was simply the bearing of commonplace individuals going about their business in the assurance of perfect safety, was offensive to me like the outrageous flauntings of folly in the faces of a danger it is unable to comprehend.

Happiness, she would explain, was when a person felt good, light, creative, content, loving and loved, and free. An unhappy person felt as if there were barriers crushing her desires and the talents she had inside. A happy woman was one who could exercise all kinds of rights, from the right to move to the right to create, compete, and challenge, and at the same time could be loved for doing so. Part of happiness was to be loved by a man who enjoyed your strength and was proud of your talents. Happiness was also about the right to privacy, the right to retreat from the company of others and plunge into contemplative solitude. Or sit by yourself doing nothing for a whole day, and not give excuses or feel guilty about it either. Happiness was to be with loved ones, and yet still feel that you existed as a separate being, that ou were not just there to make them happy. Happiness was when there was a balance between what you gave and what you took.

Mothers should tell little girls and boys about the importance of dreams,' Aunt Habiba said. 'They give a sense direction. It is not enough to reject this courtyard--you need to have a vision of the meadows with which you want to replace it.' But how, I asked Aunt Habiba, could you distinguish among all the wishes, all the cravings which besieged you, and find the one on which you ought to focus, the important dream that gave you vision? She said that little children had to be patient, the key dream would emerge and bloom within, and then, from the intense pleasure it gave you, you would know that that it was the genuine little treasure which would give you direction and light. (p. 214)

Les mots sont comme des oignons, me dit-elle, plus tu ôtes de pleures, plus tu trouve de significations. Et quand tu commences a découvrir plusieurs sens, le vrai et le faux ne veulent plus rien dire.

I found myself back in the sepulchral city resenting the sight of people hurrying through the streets to filch a little money from each other, to devour their infamous cookery, to gulp their unwholesome beer, to dream their insignificant and silly dreams. They trespassed upon my thoughts. They were intruders whose knowledge of life was to me an irritating pretense, because I felt so sure they could not possibly know the things I knew.

Trespassing—” Wheeze wheeze. “In an airport—” Cough cough choke snort. “Is punishable—dang it. Graham?” “Yeah, man.” He eyeballed the guy on top of him. “Hey, Joey, do you think you can arrest me in a minute? I’m trying to win my dream girl here.” “How’s it going?” “Well, I’m getting spooned by you and not her, so you tell me.

My home is a red desert that trembles with spirits and bones. There are two reasons I came here: my father's death, and the lion man who prowled my dreams. Perhaps it was coincidence, but a man--half wild, ravenous beyond words--slid from the dream world into the mud of the waking one the same year my father left this world for another. Ghosts. Paw prints. I have tried to stay put.

No, they did not bury me, though there is a period of time which I remember mistily, with a shuddering wonder, like a passage through some inconceivable world that had no hope in it and no desire. I found myself back in the sepulchral city resenting the sight of people hurrying through the streets to filch a little money from each other, to devour their infamous cookery, to gulp their unwholesome beer, to dream their insignificant and silly dreams. They trespassed upon my thoughts. They were intruders whose knowledge of life was to me an irritating pretense, because I felt so sure they could not possibly know the things I knew. Their bearing, which was simply the bearing of commonplace individuals going about their business in the assurance of perfect safety, was offensive to me like the outrageous flauntings of folly in the face of a danger it is unable to comprehend. I had no particular desire to enlighten them, but I had some difficulty in restraining myself from laughing in their faces, so full of stupid importance. I dare say I was not very well at that time. I tottered about the streets—there were various affairs to settle—grinning bitterly at perfectly respectable persons. I admit my behavior was inexcusable, but then my temperature was seldom normal in these days.

I asked Mina how would I know on which side I stood. Her answer was quick, short, and very clear - If you can't get out, you are on the powerless side.

I found myself back in the sepulchral city resenting the sight of people hurrying though the streets to filch a little money from each other, to devour their infamous cookery, to gulp their unwholesome beer, to dream their insignificant and silly dreams. They trespassed upon my thoughts. They were intruders whose knowledge of life was to me an irritating pretence, because I felt so sure they could not possibly know the things I knew.

I found myself back in the sepulchral city resenting the sight of people hurrying through the streets to filch a little money from each other, to devour their infamous cookery, to gulp their unwholesome beer, to dream their insignificant and silly dreams. They trespassed upon my thoughts. They were intruders whose knowledge of life was to me an irritating pretence, because I felt so sure they could not possibly know the things I knew.

I found myself back in the sepulchral city resenting the sight of people hurrying through the streets to filch a little money from each other, to devour their infamous cookery, to gulp their unwholesome beer, to dream their insignificant and silly dreams. They trespassed upon my thoughts. They were intruders whose knowledge of life was to me an irritating pretense, because I felt so sure they could not possibly know the things I knew. Their bearing, which was simply the bearing of commonplace individuals going about their business in the assurance of perfect safety, was offensive to me like the outrageous flauntings of folly in the face of a danger it is unable to comprehend. I had no particular desire to enlighten them, but I had some difficulty in restraining myself from laughing in their faces, so full of stupid importance. I dare say I was not very well at that time.

their footfalls? Finally some combination thereof, or these many things as permutations of each other—as alternative vocabularies? However it was, by January I was winnowed, and soon dispensed with pills and analysis (the pills I was weaned from gradually), and took up my unfinished novel again, Our Lady of the Forest, about a girl who sees the Virgin Mary, a man who wants a miracle, a priest who suffers spiritual anxiety, and a woman in thrall to cynicism. It seems to me now that the sum of those figures mirrors the shape of my psyche before depression, and that the territory of the novel forms a map of my psyche in the throes of gathering disarray. The work as code for the inner life, and as fodder for my own biographical speculations. Depression, in this conceit, might be grand mal writer’s block. Rather than permitting its disintegration at the hands of assorted unburied truths risen into light as narrative, the ego incites a tempest in the brain, leaving the novelist to wander in a whiteout with his half-finished manuscript awry in his arms, where the wind might blow it away. I don’t find this facile. It seems true—or true for me—that writing fiction is partly psychoanalysis, a self-induced and largely unconscious version. This may be why stories threaten readers with the prospect of everything from the merest dart wound to a serious breach in the superstructure. To put it another way, a good story addresses the psyche directly, while the gatekeeper ego, aware of this trespass—of a message sent so daringly past its gate, a compelling dream insinuating inward—can only quaver through a story’s reading and hope its ploys remains unilluminated. Against a story of penetrating virtuosity—The Metamorphosis, or Lear on the heath—this gatekeeper can only futilely despair, and comes away both revealed and provoked, and even, at times, shattered. In lesser fiction—fiction as entertainment, narcissism, product, moral tract, or fad—there is also some element of the unconscious finding utterance, chiefly because it has the opportunity, but in these cases its clarity and force are diluted by an ill-conceived motive, and so it must yield control of the story to the transparently self-serving ego, to that ostensible self with its own small agenda in art as well as in life. * * * Like

In the castle of lurid Smiles, In the realm of void Ecstasy, In the clutches of mad Nostalgia - There flowed a river of serene Tranquility, Charmed by the halo of yet unknown. And there she trespassed - To hear the resonance of her soul, To touch the rainbow of her sun, To feel the nerve of her being. She seemed to love her nest, A tender bud caressing the depth of sweet Solitude. Yet she longed to traverse through that river, Crossing the limps of jolting Madness. For sometimes she heard the beckoning of a Rainbow, Burning the sky of a distant land, Charmed by the halo of yet known.

Les femmes marocaines, revant de libération et de changement, étaient obligées d'aller chercher leur féministes à l'est, en Egypt et en Turquie, car il n'en existait as encore d'assez célèbres dans le pays pour nourrir leur aspirations. "Pas étonnant que le Maroc soit si arriéré, remarquait Chama de temps en temps. Coincés au sud par le silnce du Sahara,à l'ouest par les vagues vociférantes de lAtlantique, et au nord par l'invasion chrétienne, les Marocains se sont repliés sur la défensive, alors que toutes les autres nations musulmanes ont pris leur essor et se confrontent au monde moderne. Les femmes ont progressé partout, sauf dans ce pays si fier d'avoir résisté aux Ottomans? A force de se battre contre les étrangers, on s'est murées. [...]

this thing—his thing—still well and alive inside me. # I dreamed of clawed hooks and sexual abandon. Faces covered in leather masks and eyeliner so dark I could only see black. Here the monsters would come alive, but not the kind you have come to expect. I watched myself as if I were outside my own flesh, free from the imprisonment of bone and conscience. Swollen belly stretch-marked and ugly; my hair tethered and my skin vulnerable. Earthquake beats blared from the DJ booth as terrible looking bodies thrashed, moshed and convulsed. Alone, so alone. Peter definitely gone, no more tears left but the ones that were to come from agony. She was above me again, Dark Princess, raging beauty queen, and I was hers to control. The ultimate succession into human suspension. Like I’d already learned: the body is the final canvas. There is no difference between love and pain. They are the same hopeless obsession. The hooks dived, my legs opened and my back arched. Blood misted my face; pussy juice slicked my inner thigh as my water suddenly broke. # The next night I had to get to the club. 4 A.M. is a time that never lets me down; it knows why I have nightmares, and why I want to suspend myself above them. L train lunacies berated me once again, but this time I noticed the people as if under a different light. They were all rather sad, gaunt and bleary. Their faces were to be pitied and their hands kept shaking, their legs jittering for another quick fix. No matter how much the deranged governments of New York City have cleaned up the boroughs, they can’t rid us of our flavor. The Meatpacking District was scarily alive. Darkness laced with sizzling urban neon. Regret stitched up in the night like a black silk blanket. The High Line Park gloomed above me with trespassers and graffiti maestros. I was envious of their creative freedom, their passion, and their drive. They had to do what they were doing, had to create. There was just no other acceptable life than that. I was inside fast, my memories of Peter fleeting and the ache within me about to be cast off. Stage left, stage right, it didn’t matter. I passed the first check point with ease, as if they already knew the click of my heels, the way my protruding stomach curved through my lace cardigan. She found me, or I found her, and we didn’t exchange any words, any warnings. It was time. Face up, legs open, and this time I’d be flying like Superman, but upside down. There were many hands, many faces, but no

Hypnotism has been used by physicians in minor operations as a sort of psychical chloroform for persons who might be endangered by an anesthetic. But a hypnotic state is harmful to those often subjected to it; a negative psychological effect ensues which in time deranges the brain cells. Hypnotism is trespass into the territory of another's consciousness. Its temporary phenomena have nothing in common with the miracles performed by men of divine realization. Awake in God, true saints effect changes in this dream-world by means of a will harmoniously attuned to the Creative Cosmic Dreamer.

Motherhood By Christianna Maas My willingness to carry life is the revenge, the antidote, the great rebuttal of every murder, every abortion, and every genocide. I sustain humanity. Deep inside of me, life grows. I am death’s opposition. I have pushed back the hand of darkness today. I have caused there to be a weakening tremor among the ranks of those set on earth’s destruction. Today a vibration that calls angels to attention echoed throughout time. Our laughter threatened hell today. I dined with the greats of God’s army. I made their meals, and tied their shoes. Today, I walked with greatness, and when they were tired I carried them. I have poured myself out for the cause today. It is finally quiet, but life stirs inside of me. Gaining strength, the pulse of life sends a constant reminder to both good and evil that I have yielded myself to Heaven and now carry its dream. No angel has ever had such a privilege, nor any man. I am humbled by the honor. I am great with destiny. I birth the freedom fighters. In the great war, I am a leader of the underground resistance. I smile at the disguise of my troops, surrounded by a host of warriors, destiny swirling, invisible yet tangible, and the anointing to alter history. Our footsteps marking land for conquest, we move undetected through the common places. Today I was the barrier between evil and innocence. I was the gatekeeper, watching over the hope of mankind, and no intruder trespassed. There is not an hour of day or night when I turn from my post. The fierceness of my love is unmatched on earth. And because I smiled instead of frowned the world will know the power of grace. Hope has feet, and it will run to the corners of earth, because I stood up against destruction. I am a woman. I am a mother. I am the keeper and sustainer of life here on earth. Heaven stands in honor of my mission. No one else can carry my call. I am the daughter of Eve. Eve has been redeemed. I am the opposition of death. I am a woman.

Concentrarte en ese pequeño círculo de cielo que se ve desde el pozo. Siempre hay un trocito de cielo al que puedes alzar la vista. Así que no mires hacia abajo, mirar hacia arriba, hacia arriba. !Y allá vamos! !Alzando el vuelo

AND FORGIVE US OUR TRESPASSES Of which the first is love. The sad, unrepeatable fact that the loves we shouldn’t foster burrow faster and linger longer than sanctioned kinds can. Loves that thrive on absence, on lack of return, or worse, on harm, are unkillable, Father. They do not die in us. And you know how we’ve tried. Loves nursed, inexplicably, on thoughts of sex, a return to touched places, a backwards glance, a sigh— they come back like the tide. They are with us at the terminus when cancer catches us. They have never been away. Forgive us the people we love—their dragnet influence. Those disallowed to us, those who frighten us, those who stay on uninvited in our lives and every night revisit us. Accept from us the inappropriate by which our dreams and daily scenes stay separate.

Trevor could almost see the invisible gas leaking from the broken furnace, billowing around his body, wafting in his wake from the laundry room to the living room, seeking out the nostrils of the realtor, the yuppies, the toddler, and every other goddamn trespasser before seeping into their bloodstream and infecting their cells until they dizzied, ached, barfed, and fell to the floor like a bunch of— He caught himself. He breathed through his nose. He pushed away the hate, calmed the tornado strangling his gut, and thought of HER.

I envy my words once spoken, for they're closer to your ear, closer to your heart, than I am. They live, inked in your memory, when I'm absent. They tiptoe through your dreams when you sleep, and if you speak my words, they'll lie more softly on your lips, where I have yet to dwell. My words go where I cannot and I'll never forgive them for their trespasses.

We need space for the mind to rave, to wander and to dream. Access to land is access to experience and access to nature is access to our own wild, spiritual mind.

Nationalism is a dream of simplicity, an anaesthetic to the complexities of a fluid world.

La magie des mots portera son rêve : “Je me ferai magicienne. Je cisèlerai les mots, pour partager les rêves avec les autres et rendre les frontières inutiles”.

La tête rejetée en arrière, les yeux rivés au ciel carré, on a soudain envie de s'endormir.

The Lake Day and night, the lake dreams of sky. A privacy as old as the mountains And her up there, stuck among peaks. The whole eye Fastened on hawk, gatherings of cloud or stars, So little trespass. An airplane once Crossed her brow; she searched but could not find A face. Having lived with such strict beauty She comes to know how the sun is nothing But itself and the path it throws; the moon A riddled stone. If only a hand Would tremble along her cheek, would disturb. Even the elk Pass by, drawn to the spill of creeks below— How she cannot help abundance, even as it leaves Her, as it sings all the way down the mountain.

Every once in a while, you experience a rough night like this: In the dead of night you rise from deep sleep, not jolted awake by a terrifying nightmare, but rather emerging softly from the mist of your dreams. Straddling the fault line between reality and the subconscious world, you wander space and time, reconnecting with people and places of your past. When you least suspect it, a magical door opens on a treacherous landing that lures you down a trail best left unexplored—one that trespasses on secret dead ends strewn with pieces of your own broken heart and shattered dreams from days gone by. Trapped in this time warp, an unwitting prisoner of the past, you find yourself sinking in the quicksand of nostalgia and regret, reliving heartaches and disenchantments of younger years.

Again and again he returned to the boundary of a boundary, a clue, he was certain, to how we might build physical structure from structurelessness, using the bootstraps of a self-referential loop—a self-excited circuit carved from “airy nothingness.” “Physics,” he wrote, is “machinery to make something out of nothing.” Bit by bit, measurement by measurement, proposition by proposition, he saw that airy nothingness solidifying, and he dreamed that together we would build the world from the primordial haze from which we ourselves arose.

Pilgrims with no vision of the promised land become proprietors of their own land … Instead of looking upward at [the Lord] they look inward at themselves and outward at each other. The result? Cabin fever. Quarreling families. Restless leaders. Fence building. Staked-off territory. No trespassing! signs are hung on hearts and homes. Spats turn into fights as myopic groups turn to glare at each other’s weaknesses instead of turning to worship their common Strength.2