Dustin Quotes

We are two parts of a song. He is the music. I am the words.

If the ending is this painful, I don’t know if this was worth it all.

Letting go isn’t about forgetting. It’s balancing moving forward with life, and looking back from time to time, remembering the people in it.

I missed you. I missed you infinity.

The world keeps moving, no matter what happens to you.

We have too many voices inside our heads. You have to pick out the ones that mean something to you. What story do you want to tell?

You are my entire world, Julie. And one day, maybe I’ll only be a small piece of yours. I hope you keep that piece.

I want you to know … if I could do it all over again, I would. Every second of it.” If the ending is this painful, I don’t know if this was worth it all.

There are so many moments I wish I could relive again. Especially the smaller ones. The quieter ones that we often don’t think about. Those are the moments I look back and miss the most.

I wish I was there with you. I wish I could see the look on your face.

I always feel at home when I’m in the store. I could spend hours and hours in here. There’s a comfort in being surrounded by walls of books.

For a brief second, I entertained the idea of ripping off my gloves, rushing down the hall, and jumping on Dustin’s back like a psychotic monkey.

Life will pass right by you,” she says, her eyes focused on the road. “And you end up missing the little things, the moments you don’t think matter—but they do. Moments that make you forget about everything else. Just like with your writing,” she adds out of nowhere. “You don’t write to get to the end. You write because you enjoy doing it. You write and don’t want it to end. Does that make some sense?

Another world, another life, another thing to keep to myself.

But sometimes you just wake up. No matter how hard you try not to.

She said that, sometimes, dreams are the opposite of what they show us. That we shouldn't understand them exactly as they are. It can mean something in our life is out of balance. Or maybe we're holding in to much. Especially when we lose someone, dreams show us the opposite of what it is we need to find balance again.

If I listen closely, I can almost hear the hum of his guitar playing somewhere in the distance.

You want to feel something. Something meaningful, and intense. You want to feel that thing in your heart and stomach. You want to be moved. To care about something, or fall in love, you know? And you want it to feel real. And different. And exciting.

Stories? We all spend our lives telling them, about this, about that, about people … But some? Some stories are so good we wish they’d never end. They’re so gripping that we’ll go without sleep just to see a little bit more. Some stories bring us laughter and sometimes they bring us tears … but isn’t that what a great story does? Makes you feel? Stories that are so powerful … they really are with us forever.

I really don't mind being ignored anymore. There's some peace in being left alone.

I listen to the message again. I listen to it on the way home, and several more times before I fall asleep. I listen to it the next morning when Mika comes over and I replay it for her. I listen to it again that night and the day after that. I listen to it on the days I miss Sam most and want to hear his voice again. I listen to his voice mail until I have it memorized, and I don’t need to play it anymore.

I feel like my life didn’t start until I met you, Julie. You’re the best thing to happen to this small town.

For a long moment, I can feel him lying there besides me. If I turn my head to look, I’d see him with his arms tucked behind his head, wearing his plaid shirt, his eyes opened wide at the sky, his beautiful dark hair, that handsome smile on his face. But I don’t dare to look, because I’m scared no one will be there. So I just stare straight up at the stars, and allow myself to keep pretending.

...a good friend stands in harm's way for you the second you ask--but a great friend does it without being asked at all.

If Harvey had not been taken from us 30 years ago, I think he would want me to say to all the gay and lesbian kids out there tonight who have been told they are less than by the churches, by the government, by their families, that you are beautiful, wonderful creatures of value, and that no matter what anyone tells you, God does love you and that very soon, I promise you, you will have equal rights, federally, across this great nation of ours.

I should prepare myself for a world where nobody is on your side or willing to help you out even when it costs them nothing at all.

He was the music. And I was the words.

Hey now, it issthhhh new technology. Dustin: "The dentissthh says all my teethtths will ssseparate if I don’t keep it in.” Jenna: “But our eyes could separate if you don’t take it out—

And whatever happens, promise you won't forget me, okay?

First. Don't get drunk. Don't smoke anything." "Duh. What are you, my dad? That's easy. I don't drink. We aren't even twenty-one. I seriously doubt anyone will be drinking at the Hodjwick house. And who smokes cigarettes anymore? So gross." Dustin shook his head. "You are so backwards. I wasn't talking about cigarettes, and if you truly believe no one will be drinking at a high school party on a Saturday night then you are too much of a baby to even leave your own house.

In terror she spoke, letting sink her wings till they trailed in the dust—in agony sobbed, letting sink her plumes till they trailed in the dust—till they sorrowfully trailed in the dust. But my wings couldn’t move and I couldn’t fly, and I couldn’t even cry. All that was left to me was the terror and the agony and the sorrow.

Holy mother of ripped-gorgeous. Get over the assets. Get over the assets. It’s an award-winning six pack. SO WHAT? Get over it. He’s just your friend. Your Dustin McHugh.

As a general rule, whenever the dust settles and we find losers looking and speaking like winners (and vice versa), we should be especially wary of the conditions that kicked up the dust—in

I don’t want to open my eyes,” Sam says. But the ride is about to come to its end. I can feel it. I squeeze my eyes tighter, hoping to stop time or at least slow it down. Because I don’t want to open mine, either. I don’t want to lose him. I want to keep them shut and live in this memory of us forever. I don’t want to open my eyes and see a world without Sam. But sometimes you just wake up. No matter how hard you try not to.

Beast, before I fuck up my car, you have to say it.” Beast growled. “Say it!” Dustin yelled. “Aw fuck, Dustin! You’re my best friend!” The line went dead,

The adventure of our first days together gradually blossomed into something else: a feeling I'd never had, which I can only compare to the sensation of returning home, of joining a balance that needs no adjusting, as if the scales of my life had been waiting for her all along.

I miss you, too. I miss you too infinity.

I'd begun to realize that there was an unspoken predjudice among book-learned people, a secret conviction they all seemed to share, that life as we know it is an imperfect vision of reality, and that only art, like a pair of reading glasses can correct it.

We are two parts of a song. He is the music and I am the words.

You were born an original. don't become a copy. —Dustin, May 14

He shrugged happily. “Let’s make plaid, canvas and compasses my absolute trademarks. Dustin McHugh. All plaid. All canvas. All the time. And I’m never lost. What say you, dork judge?

When I was 13 years old, my beautiful mother and my father moved me from a conservative Mormon home in San Antonio, Texas, to California, and I heard the story of Harvey Milk. And it gave me hope. It gave me the hope to live my life; it gave me the hope that one day I could live my life openly as who I am and that maybe even I could fall in love and one day get married. Most of all, if Harvey had not been taken from us 30 years ago, I think he'd want me to say to all of the gay and lesbian kids out there tonight who have been told they are less than by their churches, or by the government, or by their families, that you are beautiful, wonderful creatures of value. And that no matter what everyone tells you, God does love you, and that very soon, I promise you, you will have equal rights federally across this great nation of ours.

To honor Sam, we’re going to release lanterns for him. They’re called memory lanterns. It lets you whisper something to a person you lost, and the lantern will carry the message to them in the sky.

I haven’t been able to pray with the same unquestioned simplicity of hope since Dustin passed. My childhood ended the day my brother died. The naive hope that a miracle would save him, that he would one day walk, that a disease was a blessing in my family – that hope died with him.

No one experiences grief the same way, and we all come out of it differently. It's okay to wish for those things, and even imagine him here with you. Because those moments inside our heads are just as real as anything else.

On Christmas morning, Dustin knocked on my door. “Miss Winters,” he said cheerfully. “Breakfast.” I didn’t move. My parents were dead. My boyfriend was dead. My grandfather had a mysterious hidden room that had books about the walking dead—which is what I knew I would feel like if I attempted to stand up. “I don’t feel well,” I said meekly, and rolled over.

That was the recipe of our relationship, I think. We gave each other what we never expected to find.

...we both saw something we liked, a willingness to have no walls, or maybe just an unwillingness to keep them standing.

Don’t worry,” Sam says. “I can make you another one. I can make you a thousand more.

Julie,” Sam says, somewhat tensely. “Don’t do this.” “Do what?” “Hold on to us,” he says. “As if we still have forever.

Hey. Just to make sure I beat everyone to it, I wanted to write in this first. I hope that’s some more proof of how much I’m in love with you. I still can’t believe it. How did three years go by so fast? It feels like yesterday I was sitting on the bus behind you trying to build the courage to say something. It’s crazy to think there was a time before we knew each other. A time before “Sam and Julie.” Or “Julie and Sam”? I’ll let you decide that one. I know you can’t wait to leave this place, but I’m gonna miss it. I get it, though. Your ideas were always too big for a small town, and everyone here knows it. But I’m happy your path somehow made you stop in Ellensburg along the way. So you and I could meet each other. Maybe it was supposed to happen, you know? I feel like my life didn’t start until I met you, Julie. You’re the best thing to happen to this small town. To me. I realize it doesn’t matter where we’re going next, as long as we’re together. I’ll be honest. I used to be scared of leaving home. Now I can’t wait to move on and make new memories with you. Just don’t forget the ones we made here. Especially when you make it big. And whatever happens, promise you won’t forget me, okay? Anyway, I love you, Julie, and always will. Yours forever, Sam

Five thousand miles away and I can still feel your turbulence on my skin, Dustin; your grit stuck in the chambers of my heart . . . and all the silence that has followed it. Please write me back.

Letting go isn't about forgetting. It's balancing moving forward with life, and looking back from time to time, remembering the people in it.

In this impossible alternate world where time moves in another direction, where the fields are endless, and where the ground beneath us has never been more unstable. Although I’m beginning to lose track of which way is up or down, it’s a wonderful sense of relief to have someone else here with me. Someone who can look, see what I see, and tell me I’m not dreaming. Or maybe we’re dreaming together, I’m not sure. But it doesn’t matter right now. Neither of us wants to wake up from this.

So I let it ring. I let it keep ringing until it stops, the screen turns black, and I’m alone in the room again. My heart shatters, and sinks into the pit of my stomach. I set the phone down, and curl up on Sam’s bed, letting myself cry.

No matter where you go, you’re destined to do great things. I know it.

Love is merely a combination between infatuation and confusion.

We were part of a song. He was the music. And I was the words.

Don't go yet. Julie... If I could stay with you, I'd never leave. But you did leave. I know... I'm sorry. You never said good-bye...

I never made promises lightly And there have been some that I’ve broken But I swear in the days still left We’ll walk in fields of gold We’ll walk in field of gold

You’re wrong about something. You did leave a mark on the world, Sam. You left a mark on me. You changed my life. And I’ll never forget you, okay?

Sam’s voice comes through the phone. “Hey—so, I’m not sure if I should do this … Or if it will even work. I probably should have said this to you over the phone, but we ran out of time. Or maybe, the truth is, I was scared you would think of me differently … That is, if you knew why I picked up the phone that first time—” He pauses. “Before we hung up, you said something that made me feel a bit guilty. You said I picked up your call that night because you needed me. I guess part of that is true. But that isn’t the reason I answered.” A long pause. “The truth is … I picked up because—because I needed you. I needed to hear your voice again, Julie. Because I wanted to make sure you didn’t forget me. You see, I took you to all those places—like the fields, to see the stars that night—so that you’d always remember. So that whenever you looked up at the sky at night, you’d think of me. Because I didn’t want to let you go yet. I never wanted to say good-bye, Jules. And I[…]” Excerpt From You've Reached Sam Dustin Thao This material may be protected by copyright.

Idleness in this sense does not mean inactivity, but instead nonproductive activity. “Leisureliness,” says Daniel Dustin of the University of Utah, “refers to a pace of life that is not governed by the clock.

Out there, life doesn't give you extensions. Even during the hardest times. So let this be a valuable lesson for you. You'll thank me later.

Never mix books and bed. In the spectrum of excitement, sex & thought were on opposite ends. Both to be enjoyed, but never at the same time.

Who she walks with, will tell you if she's worth it.

Every storm has a brilliance, Dustin; has beauty when you look at it from a distance. It blurs all those incessant imperfections we seek to hollow out with each of our hopes. But when you step into its still center, when you see it's fury and its power, you also see its beauty; its grace.

I try not to daydream anymore. It only tricks me with images of Sam, filling me with the possibility that we can still be together, that there's still a future for us, until reality comes in like a storm to blow everything away.

Love lost is a special kind of failure, I think. It's a reminder that some consummations, no matter how devoutly wished for, never come; that some apes will never be men, not in all the world's ages.

We stayed up all night talking about what we wanted to do ten years from now, waiting to see that burning red glow curve along a dark sky, oblivious to the significance of seeing another day. And oblivious to a future when one of us would be gone.

The worst thief is a bad book

There’s a long silence before he finally answers this. He says, “I wanted to give us a chance to say good-bye.

we have too many voices in our heads. I wish I could mute them all so I could find my own.

I finally heard him sing; what if i forget his voice?

We have too many voices inside our heads. You have to pick out the ones that mean something to you. What story do you want to tell?” I

Time passed, worlds diverged.

But I am your willing sacrifice, Dustin; I am the one willing to let you go in the deep hope that you will someday come back to me, come back to that moment and that understanding. Yes, I cannot breathe without you in my soul, but I also know that I cannot take your breath for you. I understand that now.

When King Lear dies in Act V, do you know what Shakespeare has written? He’s written “He dies.” That’s all, nothing more. No fanfare, no metaphor, no brilliant final words. The culmination of the most influential work of dramatic literature is “He dies.” It takes Shakespeare, a genius, to come up with “He dies.” And yet every time I read those two words, I find myself overwhelmed with dysphoria. And I know it’s only natural to be sad, but not because of the words “He dies,” but because of the life we saw prior to the words. I’ve lived all five of my acts, Mahoney, and I am not asking you to be happy that I must go. I’m only asking that you turn the page, continue reading… and let the next story begin. And if anyone asks what became of me, you relate my life in all its wonder, and end it with a simple and modest “He died.

You’re one of the best things to ever happen to me. And when I think about my life, I think of you in it. You are my entire world, Julie. And one day, maybe I’ll only be a small piece of yours. I hope you keep that piece.

Life is an occasion...rise to it.

As I listen to the song alone in my room, I suddenly realize I will never hear Sam sing it for me, and that “Someday” never came.

After we hang up, I'm going to call you again. And I need you to not pick up this time. Can you promise me that?

Don't miss a chance at happiness because of your past misery.

There are so many moments I wish I could relive again. Especially the smaller ones. The quieter ones that we often don’t think about. Those are the moments I look back and miss the most

My mom’s smile is genuine, A lilac beaming In the presence of her Sun. Indentions in the sand prove Time’s linear progression, Her hair yet unblighted, Carrying midnight’s consistency. Clear tracks fading as the Movement slips further In the past. Cheekbones High, soft, In summer’s hue, Hopeful. Each step’s unknown impact, A future looking back. My father’s strength: One whose Life is in his arms. Squinting past the camera, He rests upon a rock Like caramel corn half eaten, Just to the left Of man-made concrete convention Daylight’s eraser Removing color to his right. Dustin sits In my father’s lap, Open mouth of a drooling Big mouth bass; Muscle tone Of a well exercised Jelly fish, He looks at me Half aware; His wheelchair Perched at the edge Of parking lot gravel grafted Like a scar on nature’s beach, Opening to the ironic splendor Of a bitter tasting lake. I took the picture. Age 11. Capturing the pinnacle arc Of a son To my lilac Who Outlived him and weeps, Still. Their sky has staple holes – Maybe that’s how the Light Leaked out.

What will they think of it? What if none of them care what I have to say? What do I have to say? And what if it’s insignificant to the rest of the world? I guess that shouldn’t matter, as long as it matters to me, right? It’s harder than it sounds, though. To write for yourself. Maybe that’s what Mr. Lee meant when he said we have too many voices in our heads. I wish I could mute them all so I could find my own.

As I see it, Christians should make good art, that shows forth truth & beauty for all, or make art that is for a specific purpose within the church. Making subpar cheesy art for Christians to consume comfortably is a tragedy for everyone.

I want to be there with you. I want to graduate with you guys. I want to move out of Ellensburg, and live with you, and grow old together. But I can’t.” Another pause. “But you still can. You can still have all those things, Julie. Because you deserve them. And you deserve to fall in love a dozen times, because you are kind

He might be physically gone, but you will always carry a piece of him with you. I know your time with Sam was much shorter that you wanted it to be, but that time together isn't something you can give back. Letting go isn't about forgetting. It's balancing moving forward with life, and looking back from time to time, remembering the people in it.

So ended the formative period in [his] life, the single year that set in motion all the clockwork of his future identity. Thinking back on it, I wonder if it isn't the same for all of us. Adulthood is a glacier encroaching quietly on youth. When it arrives, the stamp of childhood suddenly freezes, capturing us for good in the image of our last act, the pose we struck when the ice of age set in.

But Sam didn’t die in the wreck that flipped his car. Not only did he manage to stay conscious, he freed himself from the seat, crawled out onto the road, and began walking. Somehow, he made it more than a mile down the road before collapsing. An officer said it was a testament to how strong he was. I think it was a testament to how much he wanted to live. It took hours before someone finally found him. It was too late by then. Sam had lost too much blood and died from exhaustion. No one likes to say it, but maybe it would have been easier for him if he’d died there in the crash. But his will to live on was too stubborn. Just like him.

The books missed you,” Mr. Lee says with a lift of a hand. While someone else might find his words strange, I’ve grown accustomed to how he imbues personalities into the books of the store, bringing them to life. For instance, when a new book would come in, he’d say, “We’ll need to find this one a home.” It always makes me smile.

If I was going to be a woman, I would want to be as beautiful as possible. And they said to me, ‘Uh, that’s as beautiful as we can get you.’ And I went home and started crying to my wife, and I said, ‘I have to make this picture.’ And she said, ‘Why?’ And I said, ‘Because I think I’m an interesting woman when I look at myself on screen, and I know that if I met myself at a party, I would never talk to that character because she doesn’t fulfill, physically, the demands that we’re brought up to think that women have to have in order for us to ask them out.’ She says, ‘What are you saying?’ and I said, ‘There’s too many interesting women I have not had the experience to know in this life because I have been brainwashed.’ It was not what it felt like to be a woman. It was what it felt like to be someone that people didn’t respect, for the wrong reasons. I know it’s a comedy. But comedy’s a serious business.

Godzilla, you see, is toppled, is depleted, is immobile and breathless, the non-conversative dictator and his polemical primeval tyranny dashed to social smithereens... for some his demise will evince agitation, adulation and appraisal, but for me, Yasuhiro Dustin T-Bird, it returns the lingering largesse of an inconsolable fear. The fear is this: that there's a thing as big as pirate continents in the China Sea that we've together mythologised up to now currently obstructing the procession of metropolitan traffic all the way to Yoyogi. His formidable draconian jaw with its legend of gargantuan teeth slacks open like a lifelong foe's long-withheld liability, and sulphur rents the air in acrid, acid plumes as though the most cultured and violent yellowcake fart in categorical memory.

Ben Young is out on the deck with his team, having breakfast through his tube. I wonder how that feels. He seems to be content with it, although I am having some trouble reconciling the fact that Ben does not get all the big tastes anymore. He used to love Milanos and milk after every evening dinner. It was a tradition. Sometimes we still give him a tiny taste just for old times' sake. He is so accepting. It's a marvel. He is the most accepting human being I have ever met, and he is very happy. Not all the time, mind you; he has a flair for impatience if he is going somewhere and there is a delay. He just yells! You know he is pissed. There is no stopping him. More power to you, Ben Young! We had to stop feeding Ben Young by mouth because his lungs have become compromised by all the aspirating he does. It's a complex thing, eating. The body does a lot of work to protect itself and keep food out of the lungs. Ben's body is not working like a normal body does. Ben and Dustin and Uncle Tony are out on the deck listening to tunes on the computer and grooving. Ben's next support team is incoming for a shift. Uncle Marian and Ben Bourdon arrive in Hawaii today from the mainland, and the switch takes place around twelve-thirty. Time marches on. Because of the support, Ben has a very full life and keeps moving around, doing things, seeing people and going to events. I reflect on this. Life is good.

My Mum says "Plans don’t always work out how we expect them to.” “I’m learning that…” I say, resting my head against the window. “Don’t put too much effort into things. You’ll only end up being disappointed.” “That’s a bit pessimistic,” my mother says. “Sure, life ends up more complicated than we want. But you figure it out.” I sigh. “You’d think at least one thing would work out, though,” I say. “Sometimes I wish I could skip a few years into the future to see where I end up. So I don’t waste all this time planning things out, only to have none of it go right.” “That’s not a way to live life,” my mother says, her hands gripping the wheel. “Always worrying about what comes next, instead of living in the moment. I see this in a lot of my students. And I’m seeing it in you…” She looks at me. “You’re living ahead of yourself, Julie. Making decisions, and wanting things done, only to set up the future.” “What’s so wrong with that?” I ask “Life will pass right by you,” she says, her eyes focused on the road. “And you end up missing the little things, the moments you don’t think matter—but they do. Moments that make you forget about everything else. Just like with your writing,” she adds out of nowhere. “You don’t write to get to the end. You write because you enjoy doing it. You write and don’t want it to end. Does that make some sense?

I say go, go, be led. particularly If you're in your twenties, which I suspect a lot of you are in. I tell my kids it's a question Mark decade in a sense. and we're told we should know what we want to do. It's a terrible thing. 'what are you going to do?' 'what are you going to be?' 'how can you make a living at that' no, no, no, no, no it's your question mark. You're never gonna have this luxury again of not knowing and it is a luxury not to know. You can play, you can do that, you must because it's your only way not to go crazy. Because if you're- meaning if you're gonna wait for the job, you're gonna die

During the Pequot War, Connecticut and Massachusetts colonial officials had offered bounties initially for the heads of murdered Indigenous people and later for only their scalps, which were more portable in large numbers. But scalp hunting became routine only in the mid-1670s, following an incident on the northern frontier of the Massachusetts colony. The practice began in earnest in 1697 when settler Hannah Dustin, having murdered ten of her Abenaki captors in a nighttime escape, presented their ten scalps to the Massachusetts General Assembly and was rewarded with bounties for two men, two women, and six children.24 Dustin soon became a folk hero among New England settlers. Scalp hunting became a lucrative commercial practice. The settler authorities had hit upon a way to encourage settlers to take off on their own or with a few others to gather scalps, at random, for the reward money. “In the process,” John Grenier points out, “they established the large-scale privatization of war within American frontier communities.”25 Although the colonial government in time raised the bounty for adult male scalps, lowered that for adult females, and eliminated that for Indigenous children under ten, the age and gender of victims were not easily distinguished by their scalps nor checked carefully. What is more, the scalp hunter could take the children captive and sell them into slavery. These practices erased any remaining distinction between Indigenous combatants and noncombatants and introduced a market for Indigenous slaves. Bounties for Indigenous scalps were honored even in absence of war. Scalps and Indigenous children became means of exchange, currency, and this development may even have created a black market. Scalp hunting was not only a profitable privatized enterprise but also a means to eradicate or subjugate the Indigenous population of the Anglo-American Atlantic seaboard.26 The settlers gave a name to the mutilated and bloody corpses they left in the wake of scalp-hunts: redskins.

Only I reamin running further down the fields until the voices calling me sound far away. All I hear are my own heavy breaths and the sound of my heart pounding in my ears. Another breeze comes and lifts the lantern even higher, moving it past the line of the mountains. And it keeps on going no matter how hard I'm running. But eventually I become so tired and out of breath, I can't run anymore. So I stop and stand there, gazing up, watching it vanish into the sky with all of the others until I can no longer recognize it from the millions of stars. The lantern is gone. I lost it. I can't lose you, too. Not again.

Experiencing grief and pain is like falling off a cliff. Everything has been turned upside down, and we are no longer in control. As we fall, we see one and only one tree that is growing out from the rock face. So we grab hold of it and cling to it with all our might. This tree is our holy God. He alone can keep us from falling headfirst to our doom. There simply aren’t any other trees to grab. So we cling to this tree (the holy God) with all our might. But what we didn’t realize is that when we fell and grabbed the tree our arm actually became entangled in the branches, so that in reality, the tree is holding us. We hold on to keep from falling, but what we don’t realize is that we can’t fall because the tree has us. We are safe. God, in his holiness, is keeping us and showing mercy to us. We may not be aware of it, but it is true. He is with us even in the deepest and darkest pit.