Multi Coloured Quotes

I see a poem as a multi-coloured strip behind peeling plaster, in separate, shining fragments.

That’s right. A Foofoo. As cute as the name was, it didn’t come anywhere close to describing the adorable creatures. Alex’s heart had melted when she first saw the multi-coloured little balls of fluff. Like every other girl in her class—and some of the boys, too—

The afternoon breeze would incite to a weird and flabby activity all that crowded mass of clothing, with its vague suggestions of drowned, mutilated and flattened humanity. Trunks without heads waved at you arms without hands; legs without feet kicked fantastically with collapsible flourishes; and there were long white garments, that taking the wind fairly through their neck openings edged with lace, became for a moment violently distended as by the passage of obese and invisible bodies. On these days you could make out that ship at a great distance by the multi-coloured grotesque riot going on abaft her mizzen-mast.

Please let the wind of desire that rose from the multi-coloured spines of those books catch me up again, let it melt the heavy, lifeless lead weight that is there somewhere inside me, and awaken in me once again the impatience of the future, the soaring delight in the world of the intellect – let it carry me back into the ready-for-anything lost world of my youth.

She lived so much inside the balloon of her desires that she didn't want the needles of reality puncturing her carefully crafted, multi-coloured fragile daydream palloncino.

The celebrations go on for many hours,' said the woman. Above her, in the sky, a firework exploded, showering multi-coloured flames across the stars. 'You can pay fealty at any time.' Another firework tore open the sky, streams of colour painting the woman's shift blue and green, throwing their shadows downwards. For a moment, the woman's shadow self moved against the shadow Fillingham, pressing to him, and then another explosion above them sent them dancing apart, wavering, their edges rimed with yellow and reds, and then the woman was moving again. ("The Cotswold Olimpicks")

Three, four, ten, thirty multi-coloured little beings with backpacks ran down the stairs, Pieces of humanity, a mass to direct and discipline. Four hundred of them were stuffed into this building six hours a day, four hundred were let out again when those six hours were up. Material. But zoom in on one single child and there you had an upholder of the world. A child with a mother and father, grandparents, relatives and friends. A child whose existence is necessary for the proper functioning of many lives. Children are fragile, and carry so many lives on their frail shoulders. Fragile is their world, controlled by adults. Everything is fragile.

No day passes that the mail does not flood the doctor’s office with suggestions about what to use in his clinical practice. My desk overflows with gadgets and multi-coloured pills telling me that without them mankind cannot be happy. The propaganda campaign reaching our medical eyes and ears is often so laden with suggestions that we can be persuaded to distribute sedatives and stimulants where straight critical thinking would deter us and we would seek the deeper causes of the difficulties. This is true not only for modern pharmacotherapy; the same tendencies can also be shown in psychotherapeutic methods.

Now let me tell you something. I have seen a thousand sunsets and sunrises, on land where it floods forest and mountains with honey coloured light, at sea where it rises and sets like a blood orange in a multicoloured nest of cloud, slipping in and out of the vast ocean. I have seen a thousand moons: harvest moons like gold coins, winter moons as white as ice chips, new moons like baby swans’ feathers. I have seen seas as smooth as if painted, coloured like shot silk or blue as a kingfisher or transparent as glass or black and crumpled with foam, moving ponderously and murderously. I have felt winds straight from the South Pole, bleak and wailing like a lost child; winds as tender and warm as a lover’s breath; winds that carried the astringent smell of salt and the death of seaweeds; winds that carried the moist rich smell of a forest floor, the smell of a million flowers. Fierce winds that churned and moved the sea like yeast, or winds that made the waters lap at the shore like a kitten. I have known silence: the cold, earthy silence at the bottom of a newly dug well; the implacable stony silence of a deep cave; the hot, drugged midday silence when everything is hypnotised and stilled into silence by the eye of the sun; the silence when great music ends. I have heard summer cicadas cry so that the sound seems stitched into your bones. I have heard tree frogs in an orchestration as complicated as Bach singing in a forest lit by a million emerald fireflies. I have heard the Keas calling over grey glaciers that groaned to themselves like old people as they inched their way to the sea. I have heard the hoarse street vendor cries of the mating Fur seals as they sang to their sleek golden wives, the crisp staccato admonishment of the Rattlesnake, the cobweb squeak of the Bat and the belling roar of the Red deer knee-deep in purple heather. I have heard Wolves baying at a winter’s moon, Red howlers making the forest vibrate with their roaring cries. I have heard the squeak, purr and grunt of a hundred multi-coloured reef fishes. I have seen hummingbirds flashing like opals round a tree of scarlet blooms, humming like a top. I have seen flying fish, skittering like quicksilver across the blue waves, drawing silver lines on the surface with their tails. I have seen Spoonbills flying home to roost like a scarlet banner across the sky. I have seen Whales, black as tar, cushioned on a cornflower blue sea, creating a Versailles of fountain with their breath. I have watched butterflies emerge and sit, trembling, while the sun irons their wings smooth. I have watched Tigers, like flames, mating in the long grass. I have been dive-bombed by an angry Raven, black and glossy as the Devil’s hoof. I have lain in water warm as milk, soft as silk, while around me played a host of Dolphins. I have met a thousand animals and seen a thousand wonderful things. But— All this I did without you. This was my loss. All this I want to do with you. This will be my gain. All this I would gladly have forgone for the sake of one minute of your company, for your laugh, your voice, your eyes, hair, lips, body, and above all for your sweet, ever-surprising mind which is an enchanting quarry in which it is my privilege to delve.

Sometimes, just before I fall asleep at night, I have a beautiful vision. In my imagination I see the earth floating like an enormous orange, stately and still, in the pure emptiness surrounding her. I see her slowly rotating, always lit up and warmed on one side by her mother, the sun. Ribbons and shreds of cloud float around her, and between these the seas and the multi-coloured continents, with their humid plains and snowy mountaintops, sparkle and shimmer. And I see the hot, yellow deserts and the frozen polar icecaps. I am so far removed from the beautiful earth that the people scurrying around in their cities are of course no longer visible. Whether this is such a good thing as it seems to be at the time is open to question. But it is a fact that my vision is so beautiful, so restful and so full of peace that I usually fall asleep soon afterwards. That is why this also seems to be the right moment to end my story, at least for today,

tie fastening and flared sleeves. Very boho. Mo was right, she had lost weight; the top used to be snug on her arms and across her shoulders but now skimmed her shape nicely. With a white vest underneath and two strings of multi-coloured glass beads that she had picked up in Primark, she knew she would pass muster. ‘Well, look at you!’ Mo beamed. ‘You look lovely.’ ‘I don’t feel it, not really.’ She felt sick at the prospect of going to a social event without Phil. It wasn’t that they stuck together, joined at the hip, but she always took great comfort from knowing he was close by, just in case. ‘You’re going to be fine. The first time for anything is always the worst. Just take a deep breath.’ Rosie did just that and Mo disappeared into the kitchen and emerged with her mixing

Schaffer was feeling even more vague and woolly than Smith, if for different reasons. He was waking, slowly and painfully, from a very bad dream and in this dream he could taste salt in his mouth and hear a soft urgent feminine voice calling his name, calling it over and over again. In normal times Schaffer would have been all for soft feminine voices, urgent or not, but he wished that this one would stop for it was all part of the bad dream and in this bad dream someone had split his head in half and he knew the pain wouldn't go until he woke up. He moaned, put the palms of his hands on the floor and tried to prop himself up. It took a long time, it took an eternity, for someone had laid one of the girders from the Forth bridge across his back, but at last he managed to straighten both his arms, his head hanging down between them. His head didn't feel right, it didn't even feel like his head, for, apart from the fact that there seemed to be a butcher's cleaver stuck in it, it seemed to be stuffed with cotton wool, grey and fuzzy round the edges. He shook his head to clear it and this was a mistake for the top of his head fell off. Or so it felt to Schaffer as the blinding coruscation of multi-coloured lights before his eyes arranged themselves into oddly kaleidoscopic patterns. He opened his eyes and the patterns dimmed and the lights began to fade: gradually, beneath his eyes the pattern of floorboards began to resolve themselves, and, on the board, the outlines of hands. His own hands. He was awake, but this was one of those bad dreams which stayed with you even when you were awake. He could still taste salt—the salt of blood—his head still felt as if one incautious shake would have it rolling across the floor and that soft and urgent voice was still calling.

Friendships He walked the street with his hat on, as he held on tightly to his stick, tall, sensing his way, up the path and steps. There she stood ready for the day, with a smile, and her multi-coloured hair, beside her, her faithful friend, as they walked together. One, Two, Three holding on tight, as they walked together, sharing stories, making sure he was safe. Pushed, guided, not to get lost, as she held on tight to the ball, moving it backwards and forwards. There he sat as they exchanged, ideas, passions and choices, with a smile and a thank you. There they stood as they exchanged the daily news, the coffee, a handshake, and a good day. There they walked, as they watched, listened, and shared the beauty of nature, picking the flowers, touching the leaves, and smelling the sweetness. Did you find your friend? ... So many, on the way ... Did you stop? Did you listen? Did you share? By Natasha Parker

A casket full of stories I present From the ocean of my feelings and its mood Some bring with it a tempest of tears Some make you sit and brood There are a few pearls of optimism too Which are colourful and multi-hued!

Drinking games were also part of the gig experience including a live favourite which would follow later in the band’s career, the infamous “Wheel of Misfortune,” a huge wheel to which punters were strapped to and spun after being fed a bucket of booze through a hose. This often resulted in the victim being left in an unconscious stupor or forced them to let go a multi-coloured fountain of puke. Snakebite [beer mixed with cider] was the supposed content of the bucket but many would shudder to think what foul potions were also added to the receptacle.

A passionate emotion that rises among all. Count down to the near future, beside the path of forgetfulness. Can anyone know what’s around? Will they feel safe, or will they rot? Can they see the truth beyond the lines of darkness? It’s an unwanted feeling, an emotion, a burden. To many, this path granted them unlimited action, for unlimited access to time. Where they were able to go in and out of pathways, affecting lives without the sensation of being sorry for their actions. Only now had the creators decided to insert a notion to stop all this madness. Decided upon many to reach out and create a different valiant world, where no one would be able to manipulate, but things didn’t go to plan. The Rainbow–created to order the existence of all multi-coloured creatures, but what the creators had forgotten to realise was that, it could be deployed, and reconstructed. The product, no longer being the essence of survival, but now an item for destruction, which had to be demolished. However, no one was powerful enough to smash it. It was released among the human race and everyone hated the moment it brewed into something different, something more damaging than what it would have been if it was only used as their source of life. Now, the world, in a peril, must try to survive the next generations of constructors of the drug, now known as Boxsaje…

St-Joseph-Du-Moine and Chéticamp in Cape Breton are awash with natural beauty. Little else is as powerful and moving as its setting sun, the particular scent of the ocean, or the mountains wrapped in multi-coloured fabric. Some who grow up here tend to remain, raising their families, generation after generation. Those who don’t want to leave but must to find work, often yearn to come home, returning for the occasional weekend, a few weeks’ vacation, to summer homes, or to retire in order to satisfy their yearning to stay connected to their roots and to the land. This place lures outsiders too; they come to witness the landscape or even to make their homes in our Acadian niche. In my novel, Laura’s Story, Laura leaves the village as a young girl, but as she grows older, she longs for her home and feels a distinct pull to reconnect to her native village of Chéticamp. What is it about home that holds us there or beckons us to return?

Bali Style Magazine, Book Review. James Fenton. "Books About Food and Spirit. Bali's Food Culture." Vol. 10, no.2 May 2014 “To an outsider, the cuisine of Bali is perhaps one of its least visible cultural features. Just about every visitor to the ‘island of the gods’ will have witnessed the spell-binding beauty of Bali’s brightly festooned temples and colourful ceremonies. Many of us have had the experience of being stopped in traffic while a long procession of Balinese in traditional dress pass by. However, how many of us have witnessed first-hand the intrinsic cultural links between Bali’s cuisine and its culture and religion? How many of us have witnessed the pains-taking predawn rituals of preparing the many and varied dishes that accompany a traditional celebration, such as Lawar or Babi Guling? In Balinese Food: The Traditional Cuisine & Food Culture of Bali, social and cultural historian Dr. Vivienne Kruger has compiled a meticulously researched record of the many aspects of Balinese cuisine—from the secular to the spiritual—with an eye for detail that evades most observers. In the book Dr Kruger chronicles in careful detail the ceremonies, rituals and practices that accompany virtually all of Bali’s unique culinary arts—from satay to sambal. All the classic Balinese dishes are represented such as a babi guling, the popular spit-roast pork to bebek betutu, whole smoked duck—each accompanied with a detailed recipe for those who would like to have a go at preparing the dish themselves. Lesser known aspects of Bali’s intriguing eating habits are also presented here. You may not know that the Balinese enjoy catching and eating such delicacies as dragon flies and rice paddy eels. Dog is also widely eaten around the island, and regretfully, endangered species of turtle are still consumed on some occasions. In all, Dr. Kruger has prepared a spicy and multi-layered dish as delicious and pains-takingly prepared as the dishes described within to create an impressive work of scholarship jampacked with information and insight into the rarely seen world of Bali’s cultural cuisine.

They know Grahamstown intimately, but in multi-coloured snippets, like posts on an Instagram feed that's only updated for two weeks every July.

What harebrained lack of foresight had provoked him to bring up the jet ski thing? Best case scenario he looked like a complete asshole. Worst case, he’d come off like a sad asshole, desperately trying to impress the hottest girl in his year level with his start-of-year stationery. Look at how many multi-colour highlighters I have!

He witnessed a kaleidoscopic multi-coloured horizon through his mother's eyes as she opened the colouring book and proved that broken crayons still colour.

Vision is acute in the typically diurnal lizards, where it is essential for catching live prey such as fast-moving insects, and even grabbing flying insects out of the air as they pass. Their colour vision is also excellent, better in some ways even than that of humans, because as well as discriminating between the three primary colours that we do, some lizards’ eyes also have receptors sensitive to ultraviolet light. It is therefore no surprise that colour plays a more important role in the behaviour of lizards than in any other group of reptiles. Some species display extraordinarily conspicuous vivid colours and patterns to attract mates, even at the risk of increasing the chances of their being caught by a predator. For example, the garishly multi-coloured male of the Augrabies flat lizard of South Africa combines a bright blue head, greenish-blue front trunk, yellow front legs, orange hind legs and trunk, black belly, and tan and orange tail, not to mention a UV-coloured throat invisible to us. The female, in contrast, is mostly dark brown with cream stripes.

People are like multi-coloured threads on your life's hoop. Your conversations with them, the designs. And then fate weaves it all for you, and interknits embroidery of all the incomplete colourful stories.

I was also informed by this kind lady that the Pallars and Paraiyars and other lowered castes are not allowed to walk past the street where he lives. She suggested, unlike Google Maps, that in the interests of my own safety, I take a one-foot-wide, worn-out path that snakes around his backyard. Being a half-caste, quarter-caste, quarter-quarter-caste of dubious multi-casteness, I lost all opportunity for transgression when I was fetched to his home in his own ash-coloured Ambassador.

It was a perfect evening. As I lay on my little platform, the multi-coloured afterglow of sunset spreading over the vast mountain world about me, I was filled with a deep content, untroubled either by the memory of the failures of that day, or by the prospect of further trials on the morrow. A vision of such beauty was worth a world of striving.

Then the memory came of the apartment block flattened by the bombing, a great pyramid of rubble, full of multi-coloured blocks from the wallpaper and the paint inside the many rooms. My family were under there, somewhere.

My [Hiroko Arai] favourite phrase is “eternal vigilance is the price of liberty”,’ she told me, quoting Thomas Jefferson. That meant standing up – or in her case sitting down – for what you believed in. When the Hinomaru flag was raised she remained resolutely stuck to her seat. As a punishment for her refusal to honour the national symbol, the school board forced Arai into early retirement with a reduced pension. She was also obliged to attend a ‘re-education seminar’ at which, she said, she was monitored y officials who noted her every reaction on a multi-coloured form. ‘During the Second World War, the Hinomaru flag and the Kimigayo became symbols of what we did,’ she said of Japan’s invasion of China and Southeast Asia. ‘I can’t show respect to these symbols.

As might be surmised, CWC was multi-racial, multi-denominational, inclusive of all faiths. It had members from the Christian faith, the Islamic faith and the Jewish faith. The primary objective was to build bridges, to effect reconciliation, to attempt to live lives that projected well into the future, to a time when the laws that separated us according to skin colour would be no more. It was a fond dream put forward as a testimony of faith. We truly believed the possibility existed for apartheid to be dismantled. Therefore, it behoved us to hasten the process by living the future now.