Graffiti Bridge Quotes

MUSIC IS THE ULTIMATE POWER LOVE IS SIMPLY THE MESSAGE AND THE TRUTH WILL SET YOU FREE !!!

Dangerous and indifferent ground: against its fixed mass the tragedies of people count for nothing although the signs of misadventure are everywhere. No past slaughter nor cruelty, no accident nor murder that occurs on the little ranches or at the isolate crossroads with their bare populations of three or seventeen, or in the reckless trailer courts of mining towns delays the flood of morning light. Fences, cattle, roads, refineries, mines, gravel pits, traffic lights, graffiti'd celebration of athletic victory on bridge overpass, crust of blood on the Wal-Mart loading dock, the sun-faded wreaths of plastic flowers marking death on the highway are ephemeral. Other cultures have camped here a while and disappeared. Only earth and sky matter. Only the endlessly repeated flood of morning light. You begin to see that God does not owe us much beyond that.

The worst of the graffiti in Bassey Park – much of it coolly logical anti-gay statements such as KILL ALL QUEERS and AIDS FROM GOD YOU HELLBOUND HOMOS!! – was sanded off the benches and wooden walls of the little covered walkway over the Canal known as the Kissing Bridge.

My intention all along had been to get my wakeboarding legs back this first day. Maybe I'd do tricks when we went out the next day. I didn't want to get too cocky and bust ass in front of Sean. But as I got more comfortable and forgot to care, I tried a few standbys-a front flip, a scarecrow. There was no busting of ass. So I tried a backroll. And landed it solidly. Now I got cocky. I did a heelside backroll with a nosegrab. This meant that in the middle of the flip, I let go of the rope handle with one hand, reached down, and grabbed the front of the board. It served no purpose in the trick except to look impressive, like, This only appears to be a difficult trick. I have all the time in the world. I will grab the board. Yawn. And I landed it. This was getting too good to be true. My brother swung the boat around just before we reached the graffiti-covered highway bridge that spanned the lake. Cameron had spray-painted his name and his girlfriend’s name on the bridge, alongside all the other couples’ names and over the faded ones. My genius brother had tried to paint his own name but ran out of room on that section of bridge. McGULLICUDD Y Sean wisely never painted his girlfriends’ names. He would have had to change them too often. For my part, I was very thankful that when most of this spray-painting action was going on last summer, I was still too short to reach over from the pile and haul myself up on the main part of the bridge. I probably had the height and the upper body strength now, and I prayed none of the boys pointed this out. Then I’d have to spray-paint LORI LOVES SEAN on the bridge. And move to Canada.

Dangerous and indifferent ground: against its fixed mass the tragedies of people count for nothing although the signs of misadventure are everywhere. No past slaughter nor cruelty, no accident nor murder that occurs on the little ranches or at the isolate crossroads with their bare populations of three or seventeen, or in the reckless trailer courts of mining towns delays the flood of morning light. Fences, cattle, roads, refineries, mines, gravel pits, traffic lights, graffiti'd celebration of athletic victory on bridge overpass, crust of blood of the Wal-Mart loading dock, the sun-faded wreaths of plastic flowers marking death on a highway are ephemeral. Other cultures have camped here a while and disappeared. Only earth and sky matter. Only the endlessly repeated flood of morning light. You begin to see that God does not owe us much beyond that.

There were two-foot-tall coils of barbed wire over the bridge wall that caught shopping bags in their spikes and shredded them. I watched those plastic ribbons fight in the wind, and far below saw concrete irrigation ditches that once contained the Rio Grande. The water dissipated, the only thing to see was the concrete spray painted with graffiti. The city, like the river, had dried up and left little in its place.

barbouiller /baʀbuje/ I. vtr 1. (salir) to smear (de "with") • ~ son visage/un meuble de qch | to get sth all over one's face/a piece of furniture, to smear one's face/a piece of furniture with sth • il est tout barbouillé | his face is all dirty • il est tout barbouillé de confiture | his face is all smeared with jam 2. (couvrir) to daub [surface, support] (de "with") • ~ un plafond/une porte de peinture verte | to slap green paint on a ceiling/a door, to daub a ceiling/a door with green paint • ~ un pont d'inscriptions | to daub graffiti all over a bridge 3. (peindre) • (pej) ~ des natures mortes/des paysages | to do daubs of still lives/landscapes (péj) • ~ du papier | to write drivel (péj) 4. (rendre malade) • cela barbouille l'estomac | it makes you feel queasy • être or se sentir barbouillé | to feel queasy II. vpr • (se salir) se ~ le visage/le corps de qch | to get one's face/body all covered in sth, to smear one's face/body with sth