Koi Pond Quotes

In the rose garden, the flowers are maneuvering toward the winter sunshine and the alluring sound of the koi pond’s waterfall makes you think it has a crush on you. You offer no resistance—you are done (at least temporarily) with the “regular” world.

I catch a flash of red-gold beneath the surface of the water, and realize that there are koi in the pond, massive, serene, and I wonder: are they dreams of fish, or fish who dream?

PS, I want a stripper for my birthday,” GQ announces. “Just decided now. Get on it.” “I’ll make a couple calls,” Garrett promises, but the second his friend wanders off, he confides, “He’s not getting a stripper. We all chipped in to get him a new iPod. He dropped his in the koi pond behind Hartford House.” When I snicker, Garrett pounces like a mountain lion. “Holy shit. Was that a laugh? I didn’t think you were capable of showing amusement. Can you do it again and let me film it?” “I laugh all the time.” I pause. “Mostly at you, though.” He grabs his chest in mock pain as if I’ve shot him. “You’re terrible for a guy’s ego, y’know that?

When her parents had company over, it wasn’t uncommon to see guests stopping to check out the koi ponds, exotic flowers and rare species of trees that offered plenty of cool shade. This backyard could easily rival the best botanical garden in town.

The fountain in the centre cascades down a carved stone wall, flowing into a round pond full of koi. Their scales glow in the moonlight, bright splashes of white and orange in the dark water.

I dream of Morocco and Paris, and a koi pond in the backyard. Making art, supporting art, learning art. Late-night talks with soul sisters who make me feel crazy blessed and motivated. Stage presence. Books and more books. Film. Belly laughs. I dream about communion. My man. Our son. Always. I dream of sitting around a fire with leaders and lovers of progress. Being able to give yeses that open doors and new dimensions for people. I dream of tenderness and innovation. I dream of invitations that humble me, and magical connections with people I recognize on a cellular level. I dream that we band together to leverage change. I dream of feeling more electric and sweet every single day. Mostly, I dream of being amazed. How ’bout you?

The five of us followed her to a shallow pool. A few feet away was the shark tank. It looked a lot smaller than it did from the vantage points I'd had on previous visits to the aquarium. And the sharks looked a lot bigger. In fact, they made Jaws look like a pond koi. "That's a nurse shark." Yet another aquarium employee, this time a buoyant guy,pointed out a smaller (yeah,right) one that was lurking near the edge of the tank. "They're cuddlers. They like snuggling up to each other and even us sometimes." I edged closer to Alex.He grinned and wrapped an arm around my waist. That got me into the practice pool.

The sun spangled the big pond, and through the quivers of light, we watched scores of fat koi that swam there from spring through autumn before being moved to indoor aquariums. Mom bought a twenty-five-cent bag of bread cubes, and the fish ventured right up to us, fins wimpling, mouths working, and we fed them. I felt the most unexpected tenderness toward those koi, because they were so beautiful and colorful and, I don’t know, like music made flesh. My mom kept pointing to this one and that one—how red, how orange, how yellow, how golden—and suddenly I couldn’t talk about them because my throat grew tight. I knew if I talked about them, my voice would tremble, and I might even tear up. I wondered what was wrong with me. They were just fish. Maybe I was turning sissy, but at least I fed the last of the bread to them without embarrassing myself. Almost half a century later, I feel that same tenderness toward nearly everything that swims and flies and walks on all fours, and I’m not embarrassed. Creation moves and astonishes if you let it. When I realize how unlikely it is that anything at all should live on this world spun together from dust and hot gases, that creatures of almost infinite variety should at night look up at the stars, I know that it’s all more fragile than it appears, and I think maybe the only thing that keeps the Earth alive and turning is our love for it.

At the Chinese restaurant, I stared out the window overlooking a tranquil garden with water features, ponds covered in lily pads, and koi fish. Amid the serenity and smell of dumplings, I struggled to breathe. It seemed the walls were closing in, and everyone was looking at me. Words danced around on the menu. I didn’t want the waiter near us. I wanted to shrink until I popped and disappeared.

From this angle, Ethan could see tall shadows through the windows and realised that they bordered a huge indoor garden, complete with a koi pond and-- "Are those trees?

On our final night in Seoul, Nami and Emo Boo took us to Samwon Garden, a fancy barbecue spot in Apgujeong, a neighborhood my mom once described as the Beverly Hills of Seoul. We entered through the beautiful courtyard garden, its two man-made waterfalls flowing under rustic stone bridges and feeding the koi pond. Inside the dining room were heavy stone-top tables, each equipped with a hardwood charcoal grill. Nami slipped the waitress twenty thousand won, and our table quickly filled with the most exquisite banchan. Sweet pumpkin salad, gelatinous mung-bean jelly topped with sesame seeds and scallions, steamed egg custard, delicate bowls of nabak kimchi, wilted cabbage and radish in salty, rose-colored water. We finished the meal with naengmyeon, cold noodles you could order bibim, mixed with gochujang, or mul, served in a cold beef broth.

I step up on the little wooden bridge that arches over the huge clear koi pond in the lobby. The blue and gray tiles on the floor of the pond are littered with pennies, dimes, quarters; my father would say That’s a lot of money to throw away on wishes. I’m jittering my fingers on the wooden railing, watching a pure gold koi get jostled by his big spotted pondmates, when a small dark silhouette ripples beside me. I hear the crunch of a plastic snack bag, catch a glimpse of an amber ring. Now that she’s here, I think about running. But I don’t. “Gummy bear?” she says. I whisper, “How old are you?” “Guess.” “You look twelve.” “I’m seventeen. But thanks. That never gets old.

Fish are good for eating. But we wouldn’t eat these fish.” “Because they’re pretty.” “No, because they’re bottom feeders. See how their mouths are formed? When they finish with these pellets, they’ll go down to the bottom of the pond and feed off whatever garbage they find there.” He hunkered next to Timmy, watching the swirling koi and thinking how people could swallow little bites of truth on Sunday morning and then dine on garbage all through the week. They could look beautiful, sleek, and healthy and be filled with all manner of evil.

I realize that you have four children, all of whom are particularly strong-willed, and that you're tired, and that you might not get the support you need from your wife, but dude, your kids are being dicks to each other loudly within earshot of me, and I'm gonna throw them in this koi pond. Did you know that koi are predatory? They're not, but I am starter than you, so let's pretend I'm right.

A hundred miles beyond the point, the farthest point, the most distant point on the horizon. Out past the alkali flats and sinks; Misfit and Stillwater, Humboldt and Carson. Out over the mountains, ice age islands and archipelagos, Ichthyosaur, Columbian Mastodon boned talus slopes and scree fields. Beyond the Saltbrush, Bitterbrush, Creosote Plants and Rabbitbrush, petrified Redwood forests and Mount Mazama blowouts. Out over the playas, hoodos and springs, koi ponds and basins. Beyond the mustangs, horned lizards, whiptails and rattlers and over the abandoned mines; silver and gold, copper, bornite and cinnabar. Out past the hematite and jasper, chert and agate. Out over Lovelock, Spirit Cave and Wizard's Beach. Beyond the grinding rocks, diorite and granitic boulders cast adrift in a sea of sand, dust and wind. Beyond the Rye Grass, Rice Grass and Bunchgrass. Out over the land into the distance and beyond. The distance of a thousand years, a million years, a century, a lifetime. A distance of roads forgotten and graves abandoned, misplaced Iris and Lilac the only indication of a person's passing. Out past Bonneville, Daggett, Donner and Walker. The two tracks, the single tracks, the deer and coyote tracks, lizard tracks and no tracks at all. Out over the land.....

A hundred miles beyond the point, the farthest point, the most distant point on the horizon. Out past the alkali flats and sinks; Misfit and Stillwater, Humboldt and Carson. Out over the mountains, ice age islands and archipelagos, Ichthyosaur, Columbian Mastodon boned talus slopes and scree fields. Beyond the Saltbrush, Bitterbrush, Creosote Plants and Rabbitbrush, petrified Redwood forests and Mount Mazama blowouts. Out over the playas, hoodos and springs, koi ponds and basins. Beyond the mustangs, horned lizards, whiptails and rattlers and over the abandoned mines; silver and gold, copper, bornite and cinnabar. Out past the hematite and jasper, chert and agate. Out over Lovelock, Spirit Cave and Wizard's Beach. Beyond the grinding rocks, diorite and granitic boulders cast adrift in a sea of sand, dust and wind. Beyond the Rye Grass, Ricegrass and Bunchgrass. Out over the land and into the distance and beyond. The distance of a thousand years, a million years, a century, a lifetime. A distance of roads forgotten and graves abandoned, misplaced Iris and Lilac the only indication of a person's passing. Out past Bonneville, Daggett, Donner and Walker. The two tracks, the single tracks, the deer tracks, coyote tracks, lizard tracks and no tracks at all. Out over the land.....

When faced with daily irritations, our reflex is to think that we can make it right: this is all fixable, teeth are brushable, we can feel whole. Maybe we also think that someday we will have gained perfect maturity from the lessons of our lives. We expect to be wise old sages like Yoda, not realizing that maturity is just another aspect of decay. Subconsciously we are lured by the expectation that we will reach a stage where we don't have to fix anything ever again. One day we will reach "happily ever after." We are convinced of the notion of "resolution." It's as if everything that we've experienced up until now, our whole lives to this moment, was a dress rehearsal. We believe our grand performance is yet to come, so we do not live for today. For most people this endless managing, rearranging, upgrading is the definition of "living." In reality, we are waiting for life to start. When prodded, most of us admit that we are working toward some future moment of perfection—retirement in a log cabin in Kennebunkport or in a hut in Costa Rica. Or maybe we dream of living out our later years in the idealized forest landscape of a Chinese painting, serenely meditating in a teahouse overlooking a waterfall and koi pond.

The office of my daughter’s house is my new home. I sleep on something called a futon. I can sleep comfortably enough. When I wake up in the morning and the light is coming in the window, the painting that she made of koi fish in a pond looks like it is golden and shining. When I lie down on my futon bed in the afternoon or the evening, the gold and shine are gone. Sometimes something looks one way for a time and then becomes another thing. The fish are flat and orange, black and white. The painting doesn’t have anything to say. Above my futon is a crack in the ceiling, a big long crack. I lie here in the dark, but I can still see the crack. It frightens me because it means something is broken.

The lavish room, which featured a gold-accented table and chairs as well as a huge chandelier, was empty except for the large koi fish in a pond that ran around the room’s perimeter.

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Through the years, Aunt Lil and Uncle Louie have installed every manner of ornamentation and architectural interest on their half-acre lot. There’s a koi pond, a three-tier marble fountain, and a walkway of gold-streaked pavers that swirls up to the front door like a yellow brick road. The backyard has a replica of the Parthenon built out of Carrara marble where they host the Knights of Columbus Weenie Roast every July Fourth. “My home is an advertisement for my business,” Uncle Louie says. “Italian craftsmanship and American elegance?” he asks, before he answers, “I’m your man.