Flea Inspirational Quotes

May the fleas of a thousand camels invade the crotch of the person that ruins your day. And may their arms be to short too scratch

We have to fight them daily, lake fleas, those many small worries about the morrow, for they sap our energies.

Bein famous don't mean shit

It is a cliche that human beings are fascinated by size--mountain peaks, high buildings, and whales. We are also amazed by miniatures--a flea on a mouse, a flea on a trapeze, the Last Supper carved on the head of a pin.

Arguing whether or not God exists is like fleas arguing whether or not the dog exists. Arguing over the correct name of God is like fleas arguing over the name of the dog. And arguing over whose notion of God is correct is like fleas arguing over who owns the dog.

After death, you go on a very long way, that is going up. As you go, little by little, your features change. Your nose and ears retract in the flesh of your face like the little legs of a shellfish. Your fingers retract in your palm, your hands rebsorb in your shoulders. The same, your feet retract to your hips and you don’t walk anymore, you just float along a red brick wall, on which you leave your shadow like a streched disk. You are so round, that you become translucent and begin to see on all sides at once. While we are alive, we see through a postal box, but after death, we see around, with all our skin. Floating and looking at the the brick wall closer and closer, we get to a round place. There, in the middle, there is a cell, for we are in a mother’s womb. We enter the cell, and as the stages of our birth take place, we can see through the eyes of all beings, of the flea, of the rabbit, of the cat, the dog, the monkey, the man.. and with a little bit of luck, we can see through the eyes of the wonderful beings that follow the human being. A dead man is now looking at you through my eyes.

Don't get mad about the infestation of fleas if you keep shopping at the dog pound.

I realized that music was a force that brought people together and gave them power. People living outside society need a sound to believe in. A sound that cannot be opened or emulated by squares. It inspires the marginalized and the rebels. It gives a soundtrack to their walk that only they understand. It speaks for people who might not otherwise have a voice.

G took her hand in his and traced his finger over the delicate skin of her arm. What she didn't realize was that he was scrawling the words of a poem he had recently written. It was inspired by his lady and he had spent many long hours trying to find the words that adequately conveyed the feelings of his heart. There were many false starts, because at first he tried to capture the moment a horse fell in love with a ferret. Shall I compare thee to a barrel to apples? Thou art more hairy, but sweeter inside. Rough winds couldn't keep me from taking you to chapel, When finally a horse would take a bride... And then he tried to wax poetic about the ferret alone ... Shall I compare thee to a really large rat? Thou art more longer, with less disease. One would never mistake you for a listless cat ... Nor a filthy dog, because my dog has fleas. He could never confess his passion for poetry with those poetry examples.

All useless, according to the common sense of utility, yet all of them inspiring in me curiosity and the simplest delight. Delight in the fact that beautiful things made by people forty years ago sit around, bringing pleasure to a stranger in the now. It reminds me of my duty, everyone's duty, to the future. My friends kids will need in twenty years to find crap like this at the markets so that they can feel held by the hands of past people's future dreams and not feel totally alone.

I realized that music was a force that brought people together and gave them power. People living outside society need a sound to believe in. A sound that cannot be owned or emulated by squares. It inspires the marginalized and the rebels. It gives a soundtrack to their walk that only they understand. It speaks for people who might not otherwise have a voice. It dawned on me that music was not just a fun-to-play-beautiful-thing to trip people out and make ’em happy. I thought of the old jazz guys I knew who couldn’t catch a break, and how the music they played was a personal voice for each of them, one that no rich person could ever silence. I had a deep desire to connect with it, I knew there was no faking it, you had to live the notes.

In 528, still the crown prince, not yet king, Khusro discovered that his father’s Mazdakite allies were conspiring against the throne. Driven, perhaps, by a combination of loyalty, anger, and a desire to demonstrate a kingly sort of resolution, in 529 the prince arrested, tortured, and executed Mazdak, and followed up with a massacre of his followers. (The Mazdakites would one day serve as inspiration for Islam’s dissident Shi’a.)

A man who has many friends is like a dog not minding his many fleas until some turn and bite him.

He drew it, we seen it, I imagined it, but now, seein it fer real, the size of it-- Unbelievable, I says. Now I know what a fleas feels like, says Molly. She looks grim. As do we all. But not Ash. A half-smile crooks her mouth. Fleas plague you, she says. Swamp skitters can kill you, an a little thorn- so small you hardly notice- it can work its way unner the skin an after a bit, yer hand's infected. Maybe you lose a couple fingers, maybe the whole hand. Maybe yer blood goes bad an you die. Tiny things can cause plenty of trouble. Cheer up people!

The sky fell in. Hillel was dead. I crumpled to the floor. No more nothing. No more dancing. No more arguments or petty bullshit. No more supportive discussions. No more yearning. No more discovering ourselves together in the funky grooves. No more of the easy laughter at the unsaid jokes. No more chance to fix it. No more righting the ships in our fleet gone astray out to sea. No more outdoing each other with the absurd. No more of his soulful guidance that had helped me profoundly time and time again. No more nothing. His inspiration lives in me. I would never be the Flea y’all know without him. Left with love and admiration for him. Left with the confusing pain of all that was unresolved. And the absolute knowledge that love is the only thing that counts in the end. It was devastatingly final. I lay with my bride Loesha, my unborn Clara, and we all wept. Hillel, I love you. In my dreams, I love you. In my soberest assessment, I love you. In my thoughtless silence, the sun rises and sets for you.

She asked me if I would visit the music class sometime and speak to the kids about the viability of a music career. A few months later I found myself there in that same music room, talking to the kids and jamming out for them. The kids were beautiful, the jamming and talking was cool, but I walked away from the experience shaken. The last time I had been in that room was twenty years before, and it had been packed full of kids playing French horns, clarinets, violins, basses, trombones, flutes, tympani, and saxophones, all under the capable instruction of orchestra teacher Mr. Brodsky. It was a room alive with sound and learning! Any instrument a kid wanted to play was there to be learned and loved. But on this day, there were no instruments, no rustling of sheet music, no trumpet spit muddying the floor, no ungodly cacophony of squeaks and wails driving Mr. Brodsky up a fucking wall. There was a volunteer teacher, a group of interested kids, and a boom box. A music appreciation class. All the arts funding had been cut the year after I left Fairfax, under the auspices of a ridiculous law called Proposition 13, a symptom of the Reaganomics trickle-down theory. I was shocked to realize that these kids didn’t get an opportunity to study an instrument and blow in an orchestra. I thought back to the dazed days when I would show up to school after one of Walter’s violent episodes, and the peace I found blowing my horn in the sanctuary of that room. I thought of the dreams Tree and I shared there of being professional musicians, before going over to his house to be inspired by the great jazzers. Because I loved playing in the orchestra I’d be there instead of out doing dumb petty crimes. I constantly ditched school, but the one thing that kept me showing up was music class. FUCK REAGANOMICS. Man, kids have different types of intelligences, some arts, some athletics, some academics, but all deserve to be nurtured, all deserve a chance to shine their light.