Eliza Movie Quotes

If you want the motivation back, you must feed it Feed it everything. Books, television, movies, paintings, stage plays, real-life experience. Sometimes feeding simply means working, working through nonmotivation, working even when you hate it. We create art for many reasons - wealth, fame, love, admiration - but I find the one thing that produces the best results is desire. When you want the thing you're creating, the beauty of it will shine through, even if the details aren't all in order. Desire is the fuel of creators, and when we have that, motivation will come in its wake.

There’s a Susan Sontag book called Regarding the Pain of Others, which Frank made me read — there’s a bit where Sontag talks about how when people see terrible things happen, they used to say it felt like a dream, but now they say it feels like a movie. Movies have supplanted dreams in the popular consciousness, and have become our benchmark for the unreal, and the almost real. Today has been a movie, playing on an old, warped videotape.

So Eliza walked the path to East Bay Street that summer evening alone, wearing a scoop-neck black dress and her hair in Victory Rolls so that she felt like a dark-haired Ingrid Bergman in that new movie Notorious.

The small flame in my chest flickers for a few hours, waiting for more firewood. If I feed it, the interest continues. If I starve it, the interest wanes. If you want the motivation back, you must feed it. Feed it everything. Books, television, movies, paintings, stage plays, real-life experience. Sometimes feeding simply means working, working through nonmotivation, working even when you hate it" -Olivia Kane

There's a Susan Sontag book called Regarding the Pain of Others, which Frank made me read - there's a bit where Sontag talks about how when people see terrible things happen, they used to say it felt like a dream, but now they say it feels like a movie. Movies have supplanted dreams in the popular consciousness, and have become our benchmark for the unreal, and the almost real.

If you want the motivation back, you must feed it. Feed it everything. Books, television, movies, paintings, stage plays, real-life experience. Sometimes feeding simply means working, working through nonmotivation, working even when you hate it.

In movies, they drag them across the floor, leaving behind a wide trail of blood. They shut them in trunks. They drive out to deserts, toss suitcases into rivers, call out teams of villains with attractive distorted features to do their dirty work. They leave evidence that no one finds, because there is a team to clear the set between locations. And the corpses are gorgeous, bruises and scars carefully applied by a team of artists to match an overall aesthetic: the magnificent, the haunting dead.

not yet allowing himself to wallow in the wave of relief coursing through his body, and pushed through it, ignoring questions barked at him in a foreign language. He galloped down a set of steps, past another pair of cops rushing in the opposite direction, barely meriting a second glance on this occasion. As he left the park, crossing a road that was cordoned off to traffic at either end, he breathed out a long, deep, endless sigh of relief that flooded out of him with the relentless power of the Nile emptying into the Mediterranean Sea. It was only now that he recognized how fast his heart was beating, or felt the beads of sweat dripping off his forehead – both more a result of tension than exertion. “That was close,” he groaned, cursing himself for breaking the cardinal rule of espionage and thrusting himself into the center of attention. “Too damn close.” And it was far from over. He might have escaped the first cordon of cops, but before long the whole of central Moscow would be on lockdown. He needed to get out before it was too late. Trapp fought against his instincts and slowed his pace, walking casually down a side street, past a government building with a small brass plaque outside which read, ‘Federal Agency for State Property Management’ in English letters under the Cyrillic. He kept his head low, pointed at the ground, hoping that it would obscure him from the surveillance cameras that dotted the area, but knowing that it probably wouldn’t. That’s a problem for another day. He cast a quick look around to make sure no one was paying him any attention, and when he was certain that they were not, he ducked into a space between two parked cars, crouched down, and pulled on the neon vest he had previously stowed by his breast. Again, the disguise was skin deep, but if one of the cops he’d just passed managed to radio in a description, then perhaps this costume change might add a layer of distance. It was better than nothing. He started walking again, slowly enough not to draw the eye, fast enough to put as much distance between himself and what was about to turn into a very hot crime scene as possible. As he walked, his fingers played with the rock he had carried all this time, searching for a seam or a catch. He knew that it would not be locked, or contain the kind of self-destruct device so beloved of Hollywood movies. There wasn’t the space, and besides, any competent intelligence agency would be able to defeat such protections quickly enough. Trapp found it, worked the bottom of the rock open, and saw a memory stick sitting in a foam indentation. He pulled it free, put it into the coin pocket of his denim jeans, and dumped the two halves of the rock into an overflowing trash can. It was only then that the question came to him. What the hell do I do now? 35 The village of Soloslovo was 20 miles from Central Moscow, about thirty minutes by car in light traffic, or twenty on a high-powered motorcycle the likes of which Eliza Ikeda rode as she zipped past, around

Jeannie preferred books. Somehow, it was easier for her to sit on her patio and read a book for hours than sit through a two-hour movie.

Eliza flips open Weird Tales March 1999, Hey I just had a fun lil spark of inspiration. I know you're busy this summer but I was wondering if maybe at the end of summer you would be interested in doing an afterward for my new book Satanic Panic & the Very Special Episodes. The book is a materialist counterfeit reality. The book was inspired by my 400th viewing of one of my all time favorite movie The Truman Show and I was thinking about the psychological implications of that flick, about how even after Jim Carrey's escape from the dome would he ever truly be able to trust his surroundings. I don't think so. I'm also reading some classic madness-caused-by-society texts like Anti-Oedipus and Foucault's Madness and Civilization. And I'm also reading about all of the classic kinds of schizo delusional thinking like delusions of reference, fregoli syndrome (in my opinion the scariest of all delusions), stuff like that. The book is a meta tavern confession. These two guys are sitting in a super shabby tavern and they've both basically forgotten how they got into this shabby tavern and they both kind of convince themselves and each other that they're on a set that's meant to look like a shabby tavern. The shabby construction they believe exists to give them a hint that they exist in a counterfeit reality. There are some fun neoplasms in the book like omniscinditus. One of the characters invents that word and says the word means "special secret purpose or message hidden inside common objects and concepts." The two characters basically convince themselves that everything has omniscinditus. And as I've been writing this book my mind has wandered back to mediation technology because my mind always wanders back to mediation technology. For the afterword I was wondering if I could give you a prompt for an essay that I want to be both a thing that informs Satanic Panic and the afterword. I need an expert. My prompt is, if you are down (and if you are not down I totally understand and will not be offended), about mediation technology in the hands of hypercapitalists and the algorithm as a delusion machine. I don't know what the prompt question(s) would be here. It's not necessarily a question about truth or falsity. Or maybe it's not quite a question of is this a possibility? Maybe the question(s) are about a composite of the old world and our new mediation tech as a behaviorism machine that tricks us into loving the machine. And maybe the question has something to do with the Descartes demon and tech and the old saying about how everyone throughout history has thought-demons lived in tech, but what if mediated tech became so advanced a "demon" could be invented. My thoughts always return to "well if a corporation or government or intelligence agency (some overflowing with incompetence and other silliness) can send people to a south american country or a middle eastern country or elsewhere and those people can, part of the time, successfully rally citizens and do a coup, why couldn't a technology successfully psychologically manipulate on a mass level as well? Is that what we are saying? That peepers in foreign lands can be easily tricked into coups and stuff like that? Are we talking about mind control and the Air Loom? If so, why is it when we speak of mass mind control happening in the US, scoffs happen? And why wouldn't money-powers go out of their way to create a delusion machine? Is having your masses ebb and flow between slight delusion to full to peace and tranquility and back to delusion beneficial to the money-powers and capitalism? I feel like the arrival of anxiety meeting the hope of tranquility and having that move back and forth over and over must be beneficial. And even if a psychological manipulation technology that advanced is far off, does that mean that powers-that-be are not working on making that a reality? In the book, I'm attempting to frame all of this in a materialist way without any mediation technology…