Music Festival Quotes

We've searched our database for all the quotes and captions related to Music Festival. Here they are! All 100 of them:

WHO’S GOT A TAMPON? I JUST GOT MY PERIOD, I will announce loudly to nobody in particular in a women’s bathroom in a San Francisco restaurant, or to a co-ed dressing room of a music festival in Prague, or to the unsuspecting gatherers in a kitchen at a party in Sydney, Munich, or Cincinnati. Invariably, across the world, I have seen and heard the rustling of female hands through backpacks and purses, until the triumphant moment when a stranger fishes one out with a kind smile. No money is ever exchanged. The unspoken universal understanding is: Today, it is my turn to take the tampon. Tomorrow, it shall be yours. There is a constant, karmic tampon circle. It also exists, I’ve found, with Kleenex, cigarettes, and ballpoint pens.
Amanda Palmer (The Art of Asking; or, How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Let People Help)
Do you know anything about silent films?” “Sure,” I said. “The first ones were developed in the late nineteenth century and sometimes had live musical accompaniment, though it wasn’t until the 1920s that sound become truly incorporated into films, eventually making silent ones obsolete in cinema.” Bryan gaped, as though that was more than he’d been expecting. “Oh. Okay. Well, um, there’s a silent film festival downtown next week. Do you think you’d want to go?” I shook my head. “No, I don’t think so. I respect it as an art form but really don’t get much out of watching them.” “Huh. Okay.” He smoothed his hair back again, and I could almost see him groping for thoughts. Why on earth was he asking me about silent films? “What about Starship 30? It opens Friday. Do you want to see that?” “I don’t really like sci-fi either,” I said. It was true, I found it completely implausible. Bryan looked ready to rip that shaggy hair out. “Is there any movie out there you want to see?” I ran through a mental list of current entertainment. “No. Not really.” The bell rang, and with a shake of his head, Bryan slunk back to his desk. “That was weird,” I muttered. “He has bad taste in movies.” Glancing beside me, I was startled to see Julia with her head down on her desk while she shook with silent laughter. “What?” “That,” she gasped. “That was hilarious.” “What?” I said again. “Why?” “Sydney, he was asking you out!” I replayed the conversation. “No, he wasn’t. He was asking me about cinema.” She was laughing so hard that she had to wipe away a tear. “So he could find out what you wanted to see and take you out!” “Well, why didn’t he just say that?” “You are so adorably oblivious,” she said. “I hope I’m around the day you actually notice someone is interested in you.” I continued to be mystified, and she spent the rest of class bursting out with spontaneous giggles.
Richelle Mead (Bloodlines (Bloodlines, #1))
Life is an affair of mystery; shared with companions of music, dance and poetry.
Shah Asad Rizvi
Oh, if I had had a friend at this moment, a friend in an attic room, dreaming by candlelight and with a violin lying ready at his hand! How I should have slipped up to him in his quiet hour, noiselessly climbing the winding stair to take him by surprise, and then with talk and music we should have held heavenly festival throughout the night!
Hermann Hesse (Steppenwolf)
Boys are adorable. Boys trail off their sentences in an appealing way. Boys bring a knapsack to work. Boys get haircuts from their roommate, who “totally knows how to cut hair.” Boys can pack up their whole life in a duffel bag and move to Brooklyn for a gig if they need to. Boys have “gigs.” Boys are broke. And when they do have money, they spend it on a trip to Colorado to see a music festival. Boys don’t know how to adjust their conversation when they’re talking to their friends or to your parents. They put parents on the same level as their peers and roll their eyes when your dad makes a terrible pun. Boys let your parents pay for dinner when you all go out. It’s assumed.
Mindy Kaling (Is Everyone Hanging Out Without Me? (And Other Concerns))
His life was a festival of excess that could not be contained. Deafening music, eye-popping bright colors, sugar added to almost everything he ate. Quinn's life was a bullet in a barrel ready to explode.
Neal Shusterman (Full Tilt)
The future says: Dear mortals; I know you are busy with your colourful lives; I have no wish to waste the little time that remains On arguments and heated debates; But before I can appear Please, close your eyes, sit still And listen carefully To what I am about to say; I haven't happened yet, but I will. I can't pretend it's going to be Business as usual. Things are going to change. I'm going to be unrecognisable. Please, don't open your eyes, not yet. I'm not trying to frighten you. All I ask is that you think of me Not as a wish or a nightmare, but as a story You have to tell yourselves - Not with an ending In which everyone lives happily ever after, Or a B-movie apocalypse, But maybe starting with the line 'To be continued...' And see what happens next. Remember this; I am not Written in stone But in time - So please don't shrug and say What can we do? It's too late, etc, etc, etc. Dear mortals, You are such strange creatures With your greed and your kindness, And your hearts like broken toys; You carry fear with you everywhere Like a tiny god In its box of shadows. You love festivals and music And good food. You lie to yourselves Because you're afraid of the dark. But the truth is: you are in my hands And I am in yours. We are in this together, Face to face and eye to eye; We're made for each other. Now those of you who are still here; Open your eyes and tell me what you see.
Nick Drake
I was at ease in everything, to be sure, but at the same time satisfied with nothing. Each joy made me desire another. I went from festivity to festivity. On occasion I danced for nights on end, ever madder about people and life. At times, late on those nights when the dancing, the slight intoxication, my wild enthusiasm, everyone’s violent unrestraint would fill me with a tired and overwhelmed rapture, it would seem to me—at the breaking point of fatigue and for a second’s flash—that at last I understood the secret; I would rush forth anew. I ran on like that, always heaped with favors, never satiated, without knowing where to stop, until the day -- until the evening rather when the music stopped and the lights went out.
The Fall
I was at ease in everything, to be sure, but at the same time satisfied with nothing. Each joy made me desire another. I went from festivity to festivity. On occasion I danced for nights on end, ever madder about people and life. At times, late on those nights when the dancing, the slight intoxication, my wild enthusiasm, everyone’s violent unrestraint would fill me with a tired and overwhelmed rapture, it would seem to me—at the breaking point of fatigue and for a second’s flash—that at last I understood the secret; I would rush forth anew. I ran on like that, always heaped with favors, never satiated, without knowing where to stop, until the day — until the evening rather when the music stopped and the lights went out.
Albert Camus (The Fall)
Coachella is a festival fashion show where people dress up like hippies and pretend that Passion Pit is as good as the Rolling Stones.
Caroline Kepnes (Hidden Bodies (You, #2))
If you subscribe to an astrology app or have ever attended a music festival, odds are that in the 1970s, you’d have brushed up against a “cult” of some kind.
Amanda Montell (Cultish: The Language of Fanaticism)
Words like “outdoor music festival” are why I am so glad summer in Chicago lasts approximately seven minutes.
Samantha Irby (We Are Never Meeting in Real Life.)
Phish might’ve already given it away, but inside the white man rages a music festival for lumberjacks.
Christian Rudder (Dataclysm: Love, Sex, Race, and Identity--What Our Online Lives Tell Us about Our Offline Selves)
Kropp, on the other hand, is more philosophical. He reckons that all declarations of war ought to be made into a kind of festival, with entrance tickets and music, like they have at bullfights. Then the ministers and generals of the two countries would have to come into the ring, wearing boxing shorts, and armed with rubber truncheons, and have a go at each other. Whoever is left on his feet, his country is declared the winner. That would be simpler and fairer than things are out here, where the wrong people are fighting each other.
Erich Maria Remarque (All Quiet on the Western Front)
He reakons that all declarations of war ought to be made into a kind of festival, with entrance tickets and music, like they have at bullfights. Then the ministers and generals of the two countries would have to come into the ring, wearing boxer shorts, and armed with rubber trunchons, and have a go at each other. Whoever is left on his feet, his country is declared the winner. That would be simpler and fairer than things are out here, where the wrong people are fighting each other.
Erich Maria Remarque (All Quiet on the Western Front)
It’s a much more beautiful city than I’d imagined, soaring gray buildings and grand, imposing architecture. Perhaps it’s the fact that the streets glitter with frost and there are snowflakes blowing in the air, but there’s a magical edge to it. It’s Christmas in two days; revelers spill onto the cobbled pavements from the bars and pubs, and it’s wall-to-wall festive music on the cab radio.
Josie Silver (One Day in December)
Every year when i travel around the world, i wonder if it’ll be diferent, maybe one year won’t come to the show or you’ll be less festival, but what i realized during ARTPOP is that we belong together and some stories have no end. I will follow you around the world as long as you’ll have me because i love making music, i love making art and i love, love meeting all you beautiful, creative people“.
Lady Gaga
Jimi, a red scarf around his head and wearing a white fringed and beaded leather shirt, looked almost like a mystical holy man in meditation. His eyes closed, his head back, he'd merged with his music, his Strat--played upside down since he's a lefty--his magic wand. Though he was surrounded by his band, he projected the feeling he was all alone. ... Tom Law of the Hog Farm (on Jimi's rendition of the national anthem): I felt like he was the defining poet of the festival with that piece of music. It was like taking you right into the heart of the beast and nailing it.
Uwe Michael Lang (The Road to Woodstock)
In itself that music festival was nothing special, these music festivals in our country are all alike, performing a most useful function especially for all those people who are chained to their labors, year in and year out, so naturally everybody comes flocking to the two or three music festivals per year, with their actual and their so-called amusements and distractions, these affairs are called music festivals because unlike the usual so-called country fairs they feature a band, an enormous attraction to the populace, that's all it is, but the organizers know that they can draw a much larger crowd by calling it a music festival rather than a country fair, so it has become the custom to call these events music festivals even if they are nothing more than country fairs, everybody attends these music festivals which usually begin early on Saturday night and end late on Sunday morning.
Thomas Bernhard (Correction)
Amma wanted her daughter to be free, feminist and powerful Later she took her on personal development courses for children to give her the confidence and articulacy to flourish in any setting Big mistake Mum, Yazz said at fourteen when she was pitching to go to Reading Music Festival with her friends, it would be to the detriment of my juvenile development if you curtailed my activities at this critical stage in my journey towards becoming the independent-minded and fully self-expressed adult you expect me to be, I mean, do you really want me rebelling against your old-fashioned rules by running away from the safety of my home to live on the streets and having to resort to prostitution to survive and thereafter drug addiction, crime, anorexia and abusive relationships with exploitative bastards twice my age before my early demise in a crack house? Amma fretted the whole weekend her little girl way away
Bernardine Evaristo (Girl, Woman, Other)
Yet, there is a Chennai that hasn’t changed and never will. Women still wake up at the crack of dawn and draw the kolam—the rice-flour design—outside their doorstep. Men don’t consider it old-fashioned to wear a dhoti, which is usually matched with a modest pair of Bata chappals. The day still begins with coffee and lunch ends with curd rice. Girls are sent to Carnatic music classes. The music festival continues to be held in the month of December. Tamarind rice is still a delicacy—and its preparation still an art form. It’s the marriage between tradition and transformation that makes Chennai unique. In a place like Delhi, you’ll have to hunt for tradition. In Kolkata, you’ll itch for transformation. Mumbai is only about transformation. It is Chennai alone that firmly holds its customs close to the chest, as if it were a box of priceless jewels handed down by ancestors, even as the city embraces change.
Bishwanath Ghosh (Tamarind City)
While in the United States and Europe "revolution" was an excuse to sell pop music, stage protests, and hold festivals, it was being played for keeps in Asia. Young people were not just challenging their elders but pushing them aside, expelling, imprisoning, and in many cases executing them, all the while extolling the young as the righteous vanguard, their very youth a badge of purity. They were, by definition, forward-thinking. And in Hue they were armed.
Mark Bowden (Huế 1968: A Turning Point of the American War in Vietnam)
With a clamor of bells that set the swallows soaring, the Festival of Summer came to the city. Omelas, bright-towered by the sea. The rigging of the boats in harbor sparkled with flags. In the streets between houses with red roofs and painted walls, between old moss-grown gardens and under avenues of trees, past great parks and public buildings, processions moved. Some were decorous: old people in long stiff robes of mauve and grey, grave master workmen, quiet, merry women carrying their babies and chatting as they walked. In other streets the music beat faster, a shimmering of gong and tambourine, and the people went dancing, the procession was a dance.
Ursula K. Le Guin (The Ones Who Walk Away from Omelas)
The feast lasted nine days, the last three becoming a continuous circle dance accompanied by songs and music. Noemi always stayed on the belvedere among the banquet remains. ... No, she didn't dance, she didn't laugh, but it was enough for her to see people enjoying themselves, because she too hoped to take part in the festival of life.
Grazia Deledda (Reeds in the Wind)
The Boston Globe: The Woodstock Music and Art Festival will surely go down in history as a mass event of great and positive significance in the life of the country ... That this many young people could assemble so peaceably and with such good humor in a mile-square area ... speaks volumes about their dedication to the ideal of respect for the dignity of the individual ... In a nation beset with a crescendo of violence, this is a vibrantly hopeful sign. If violence is infectious, so, happily, is nonviolence.
Uwe Michael Lang (The Road to Woodstock)
Annwyl: dear Iesu Mawr: great Jesus Hwyl fawr am nawr: good-bye for now Diolch i Dduw: Thank God Dw i’n dy garu di: I love you Owain Glyndŵr: a Welsh ruler, a figure of Welsh nationalism, and the last native Welshman to hold the title Prince of Wales. He lived from 1349–1416 Eistedfodd: a festival of Welsh literature, music, dancing, and acting
Lisa Kleypas (Marrying Winterborne (The Ravenels, #2))
I've always thought of myself as a big music fan. When I walk to the station, or when I'm waiting for a friend or a train, I listen to music on my phone. I go to festivals and shows every summer. But listening to music alone in my room, with all the tome in the world... I wouldn't know what to do with myself. An artist, someone I couldn't see, singing, putting their heart and soul into it. Where should I look, What kind of face should I make? The more members in the band, the more awkward I feld. What did other people do - people who thought of themselves as music lovers? Did they just sit there with their eyes closed as they took it in? Did they stare off, bobbing their heads and moving along to the music?
Emi Yagi (Diary of a Void)
Anchoring the country's southwest is Finland's former capital, Turku. This striking seafaring city stretches along the broad Aurajoki from its Gothic cathedral to its medieval castle and vibrant harbour. Turku challenges Helsinki's cultural pre-eminence with cutting-edge galleries, museums and restaurants, and music festivals that electrify the summer air.
Lonely Planet Finland
I come from the heart land of New Zealand. A place where men are men and there is no such thing as a latte. Where a day’s work is only done one way. THE HARD WAY. Where the vehicle you drive doesn’t symbolize who you are. A place where a beer is a beer and it comes only one way, ICE COLD. Yes the great land I like to call home the Waikato but yes all this beauty comes at a price obviously where men actually act like men not knob head; makeup wearing, tight jean wearing homos there will always be a shortage of real women. So just as the last generation of real men, almost every weekend we head into every bar, club, party or music festival we can in the hopes of finding a real women. Don’t get me wrong, bars clubs a music fests are the best fun ever. And I drink alcohol like it’s going out of fashion not that we care about fashion round here. See you in the heart land
Daniel Anderson
Ultimately, the roast turkey must be regarded as a monument to Boomer's love. Look at it now, plump and glossy, floating across Idaho as if it were a mammoth, mutated seed pod. Hear how it backfires as it passes the silver mines, perhaps in tribute to the origin of the knives and forks of splendid sterling that a roast turkey and a roast turkey alone possesses the charisma to draw forth into festivity from dark cupboards. See how it glides through the potato fields, familiarly at home among potatoes but with an air of expectation, as if waiting for the flood of gravy. The roast turkey carries with it, in its chubby hold, a sizable portion of our primitive and pagan luggage. Primitive and pagan? Us? We of the laser, we of the microchip, we of the Union Theological Seminary and Time magazine? Of course. At least twice a year, do not millions upon millions of us cybernetic Christians and fax machine Jews participate in a ritual, a highly stylized ceremony that takes place around a large dead bird? And is not this animal sacrificed, as in days of yore, to catch the attention of a divine spirit, to show gratitude for blessings bestowed, and to petition for blessings coveted? The turkey, slain, slowly cooked over our gas or electric fires, is the central figure at our holy feast. It is the totem animal that brings our tribe together. And because it is an awkward, intractable creature, the serving of it establishes and reinforces the tribal hierarchy. There are but two legs, two wings, a certain amount of white meat, a given quantity of dark. Who gets which piece; who, in fact, slices the bird and distributes its limbs and organs, underscores quite emphatically the rank of each member in the gathering. Consider that the legs of this bird are called 'drumsticks,' after the ritual objects employed to extract the music from the most aboriginal and sacred of instruments. Our ancestors, kept their drums in public, but the sticks, being more actively magical, usually were stored in places known only to the shaman, the medicine man, the high priest, of the Wise Old Woman. The wing of the fowl gives symbolic flight to the soul, but with the drumstick is evoked the best of the pulse of the heart of the universe. Few of us nowadays participate in the actual hunting and killing of the turkey, but almost all of us watch, frequently with deep emotion, the reenactment of those events. We watch it on TV sets immediately before the communal meal. For what are footballs if not metaphorical turkeys, flying up and down a meadow? And what is a touchdown if not a kill, achieved by one or the other of two opposing tribes? To our applause, great young hungers from Alabama or Notre Dame slay the bird. Then, the Wise Old Woman, in the guise of Grandma, calls us to the table, where we, pretending to be no longer primitive, systematically rip the bird asunder. Was Boomer Petaway aware of the totemic implications when, to impress his beloved, he fabricated an outsize Thanksgiving centerpiece? No, not consciously. If and when the last veil dropped, he might comprehend what he had wrought. For the present, however, he was as ignorant as Can o' Beans, Spoon, and Dirty Sock were, before Painted Stick and Conch Shell drew their attention to similar affairs. Nevertheless, it was Boomer who piloted the gobble-stilled butterball across Idaho, who negotiated it through the natural carving knives of the Sawtooth Mountains, who once or twice parked it in wilderness rest stops, causing adjacent flora to assume the appearance of parsley.
Tom Robbins (Skinny Legs and All)
The carillon is, after all, the music of the people. Elsewhere, in the glittering capitals, public festivals are celebrated with fireworks, that magical offering that can thrill the very soul. Here, in the meditative land of Flanders, among the damp mists so antagonistic to the brilliance of fire, the carillon takes their place. It is a display of fireworks that one hears: flares, rockets, showers, a thousand sparks of sound which colour the air for visionary eyes alerted by hearing.
Georges Rodenbach (The Bells of Bruges)
It seems to begin before dawn with the Muslims, when a mosque at the edge of the mangrove forest softly announces, in a lullaby voice, the morning call to prayer. Not to be outdone, the local Christians soon crank up pop-sounding hymns that last anywhere from one to three hours. This is followed by cheerful, though overamplified, kazoo-like refrain from the Hindu temple that reminds Less of the ice cream truck from his childhood. Then comes a later call to prayer. Then the Christians decide to ring some bronze bells. And so on. There are sermons and live singers and thunderous drum performances. In this way, the faiths alternate throughout the day, as at a music festival, growing louder and louder until, during the outright cacophony of sunset, the Muslims, who began the whole thing, declare victory by projecting not only the evening call to prayer but the prayer itself in its entirety. After that, the jungle falls to silence. Perhaps this is the Buddhists' sole contribution. Every morning, it starts again.
Andrew Sean Greer (Less)
Y'know, when I first started listening to punk rock music, I used to get my fucking ass kicked for it! I was known as a fucking freak! But now I'm amongst many many many freaks here with me tonight! - Billie Joe Armstrong,Stay The Night, Reading Festival 2013
Billie Joe Armstrong
Slowly the bluish spring moon climbs the houses, sliding up the minarets into the clicking palm-trees, and with it the city seems to uncurl like some hibernating animal dug out of its winter earth, to stretch and begin to drink in the music of the three-day festival.
Lawrence Durrell (The Alexandria Quartet)
Are you a chamber-music aficionado? Or do you like rock so raucous it makes your ears bleed? Whatever your pleasure, Finland has a music festival to suit. Savonlinna’s castle is the dramatic setting for a month-long opera festival; fiddlers gather at Kaustinen for full-scale folk; Pori, Espoo and Tampere attract thousands of jazz fans; Seinäjoki flashes sequins and high heels during its five-day tango festival; Turku's Ruisrock is one of several kicking rock festivals; and the Sibelius Festival in Lahti ushers in autumn with classical grace.
Lonely Planet Finland
The festive music died down and the granite pillars were replaced with rotted wooden beams as he continued down the alleyways. The scent of fresh flowers turned to mold, and the colorful mosiacs of honor and nobility were nonexistent. Run-down tenements were shadowed by its surrounding buildings, as if the capital itself wanted to conceal its existence.
Evan Meekins (The Black Banner)
The wires noted how all four Beatles attended Bob Dylan’s Royal Festival Hall appearance, captured by D. A. Pennebaker’s Don’t Look Back documentary. Dylan’s recent Bringing It All Back Home featured a side of electric rock, and this would be his last acoustic-only tour. Convulsed over Dylan’s identity, his British audience parsed every lyric, mistrusting his flirtation with rock ’n’ roll more for its flight from literary pretense than inexplicable lack of explicit social protest. The Beatles’ attendance conferred royal approval of Dylan’s vexing persona, whichever guise it took. With the publication of Lennon’s second book, A Spaniard in the Works, the Dylan rivalry intensified. Spaniard was both hastier than its predecessor and more ambitious, with more wordplay by the pound.
Tim Riley (Lennon: The Man, the Myth, the Music - The Definitive Life)
If the early English and LA punk bands shared a common sound, the New York bands just shared the same clubs. As such, while the English scene never became known as the '100 Club' sound, CBGBs was the solitary common component in the New York bands' development, transcended once they had outgrown the need to play the club. Even their supposed musical heritage was not exactly common -- the Ramones preferring the Dolls/Stooges to Television's Velvets/Coltrane to Blondie's Stones/Brit-Rock. Though the scene had been built up as a single movement, when commercial implications began to sink in, the differences that separated the bands became far more important than the similarities which had previously bound them together. In the two years following the summer 1975 festival, CBGBs had become something of an ideological battleground, if not between the bands then between their critical proponents. The divisions between a dozen bands, all playing the same club, all suffering the same hardships, all sharing the same love of certain central bands in the history of rock & roll, should not have been that great. But the small scene very quickly partitioned into art-rockers and exponents of a pure let's-rock aesthetic.
Clinton Heylin (From the Velvets to the Voidoids: A Pre-Punk History for a Post-Punk World)
She began to take exercise far too late, embarking on tiny cycling tours to music festivals, or flower shows, or doing the rounds of churches – there were so many spires in her uninspiring adopted home. Three kids, one episiotomy, two continents, many phobias, lots of depressions. Old fat lady's underwear. It was all a curse upon cycling, which she'd taken up for what reason? Believe it or not, not even the bulbous seventies there were still bulbous, middle-aged women such as she, who thought that the principle of cycling meant something. They cycled and they ate in health-food restaurants like Cranks or Ceres, their cussedness aimed at appeasing the Earth Goddess herself. They almost fucking overdosed on grated carrot; while sipping fucking prune juice. They invented being environmentally-conscious, with their vegetable-buying co-operatives which gave them an excuse to put gumboots on in town.
Will Self (How the Dead Live)
They told me they were headed for a planet the name of which I had not heard before, and they talked among themselves, gaily and happily, but in such a way that I did not seem to be left out. From their talk I gained the fact that some form of art was being presented at the festival on this planet. The art form was not alone of music or painting, but was composed of sound and color and emotion and form and other qualities for which there seem to be no words in the language of the Earth, and which I do not entirely recognize, only gaining the very faintest inkling of what they were talking of in this particular regard. I gained the impression of a three-dimensional symphony, although this is not entirely the right expression, which had been composed, not by a single being, but by a team of beings. They talked of the art form enthusiastically and I seemed to understand that it would last for not only several hours, but for days, and that it was an experience rather than a listening or seeing and that the spectators or audience did not merely sit and listen, but could, if they wished, and must, to get the most out of it, be participants.
Clifford D. Simak (Way Station)
Men," said the little prince, "set out on their way in express trains, but they do not know what they are looking for. Then they rush about, and get excited, and turn round and round..." And he added: "It is not worth the trouble..." [...] "I am thirsty for this water," said the little prince. "Give me some of it to drink..." And I understood what he had been looking for. I raised the bucket to his lips. He drank, his eyes closed. It was as sweet as some special festival treat. This water was indeed a different thing from ordinary nourishment. Its sweetness was born of the walk under the stars, the song of the pulley, the effort of my arms. It was good for the heart, like a present. When I was a little bou, the lights of the Christmas tree, the music of the Midnight Mass, the tenderness of smiling faces, used to make up, so the radiance of the gifts I received. "The men where you live," said the little prince, "raised five thousand roses in the same garden - and they do not find in it what they are looking for. [...] And yet what they are looking for could be found in one single rose, or in a little water." "Yes, that is true," I said. And the little prince added: "But the eyes are blind. One must look with the heart...
Antoine de Saint-Exupéry (The Little Prince)
The End” It is time for me to go, mother; I am going. When in the paling darkness of the lonely dawn you stretch out your arms for your baby in the bed, I shall say, “Baby is not there!”—mother, I am going. I shall become a delicate draught of air and caress you; and I shall be ripples in the water when you bathe, and kiss you and kiss you again. In the gusty night when the rain patters on the leaves you will hear my whisper in your bed, and my laughter will flash with the lightning through the open window into your room. If you lie awake, thinking of your baby till late into the night, I shall sing to you from the stars, “Sleep, mother, sleep.” On the straying moonbeams I shall steal over your bed, and lie upon your bosom while you sleep. I shall become a dream, and through the little opening of your eyelids I shall slip into the depths of your sleep; and when you wake up and look round startled, like a twinkling firefly I shall flit out into the darkness. When, on the great festival of puja, the neighbours’ children come and play about the house, I shall melt into the music of the flute and throb in your heart all day. Dear auntie will come with puja-presents and will ask, “Where is our baby, sister?” Mother, you will tell her softly, “He is in the pupils of my eyes, he is in my body and in my soul.
Rabindranath Tagore (Collected Poems and Plays of Rabindranath Tagore)
This sound, which like all music--indeed, like all pleasure--I had been numbly unresponsive to for months, pierced my heart like a dagger, and in a flood of swift recollection I thought of all the joys the house had known: the children who had rushed through its rooms, the festivals, the love and work, the honestly earned slumber, the voices and the nimble commotion, the perennial tribe of cats and dogs and birds, "laughter and ability and Sighing, And Frocks and Curls." All this I realized was more than I could ever abandon, even as what I had set out so deliberately to do was more than I could inflict on those memories, and upon those, so close to me, with whom the memories were bound. And just as powerfully I realized I could not commit this desecration on myself.
William Styron (Darkness Visible: A Memoir of Madness)
There was gray train smoke over the town most days, it smelled of travel, of transcontinental trains about to flash by, of important things about to happen. The train smell sounded the ‘A’ for Lamptown and then a treble chord of frying hamburger and onions and boiling coffee was struck by Hermann Bauer's kitchen, with a sostenuto of stale beer from Delaney's back door. These were all busy smells and seemed a 6 to 6 smell, a working town's smell, to be exchanged at the last factory whistle for the festival night odors of popcorn, Spearmint chewing gum, barber-shop pomades, and the faint smell of far-off damp cloverfields. Mornings the cloverfields retreated when the first Columbus local roared through the town. Bauer’s coffee pot boiled over again, and the factory’s night watchmen filed into Delaney’s for their morning beer.
Dawn Powell (Dance Night)
Of all the old festivals, however, that of Christmas awakens the strongest and most heartfelt associations. There is a tone of solemn and sacred feeling that blends with our conviviality, and lifts the spirit to a state of hallowed and elevated enjoyment. The services of the church about this season are extremely tender and inspiring. They dwell on the beautiful story of the origin of our faith, and the pastoral scenes that accompanied its announcement. They gradually increase in fervor and pathos during the season of Advent, until they break forth in full jubilee on the morning that brought peace and goodwill to men. I do not know a grander effect of music on the moral feelings than to hear the full choir and the pealing organ performing a Christmas anthem in a cathedral, and filling every part of the vast pile with triumphant harmony.
Washington Irving (Old Christmas: From the Sketch Book)
As already suggested, when the individual first learns who it is that he must now accept a his own, he is likely, at the very least, to feel some ambivalence; for these others will not only be patently stigmatized, and thus not like the normal person he knows himself to be, but ma also have other attributes with which he finds it difficult to associate himself. What may end up as a freemasonry may begin with a shudder. A newly blind girl on a visit to The Lighthouse [probably the Chicago Lighthouse, one of the oldest social service agencies in Chicago serving the blind or visually impaired] directly from leaving the hospital provides an illustration: „My questions about a guide dog were politely turned aside. Another sighted worker took me in tow to show me around. We visited the Braille library; the classrooms; the clubrooms where the blind members of the music and dramatic groups meet; the recreation hall where on festive occasion the blind play together; the cafeteria, where all the blind gather to eat together; the huge workshops where the blind earn a subsistence income by making mops and brooms, weaving rugs, caning chairs. As we moved from room to room, I could hear the shuffling of feet, the muted voices, the tap-tap-tapping of canes. Here was the safe, segregated world of the sightless — a completely different world, I was assured by the social worker, from the one I had just left…. I was expected to join this world. To give up my profession and to earn my living making mops. The Lighthouse would be happy to teach me how to make mops. I was to spend the rest of my life making mops with other blind people, eating with other blind people, dancing with other blind people. I became nauseated with fear, as the picture grew in my mind. Never had I come upon such destructive segregation.“ (p.37)
Erving Goffman (Stigma: Notes on the Management of Spoiled Identity)
I love this room, said Moctezuma, you can't imagine how I miss being a priest. Where there were splotches of blood, he saw sprays of flowers. The withered fingers of the hands of great warriors sacrificed during the year's festivals swayed pleasingly like the branches of a small tree to the beat of some music he couldn't place, though in a possible future we would have recognized it. It was T. Rex's "Monolith." The priest was also up to his ears in whatever he had taken to carry out his temple duties, so he bent his magic powers of hearing to the music and caught the sexy crooning of Marc Bolan. He smiled. That's good stuff, he said. Moctezuma swung his hips to the beat. It's nothing I've ever heard before, he replied, but I like it. He pulled his elbows in tight and shimmied, moving his head gravely from side to side, transfixed by pleasure. The priest, swaying his own ass to the beat—he was nearly eighty, but on mushrooms he was a jaguar-said, I was thinking about you, believe it or not; look at this.
Álvaro Enrigue (You Dreamed of Empires)
Odd Fellows Chamber Music for 2013 will be in October this year To Participants in the Odd Fellows Youth Chamber Music Project: Because an elevator is being installed at the Lodge, probably during August, we have to change the date: Instead of the two-week August program, we will be holding a weekend Baroque Festival in October, with an emphasis on Bach. There will be groups of all sizes and levels. The Program will take place on October 19th and 20th, 2013. We will rehearse from 9:30 AM to 12 Noon, and from 1 PM to 5PM, on Saturday. We’ll be feeding you during the lunch break. The performance will be at 3 PM on Sunday October 20th. Reception after. We’ll still be keeping one person on each part, and without Conductors. We will be sending out applications soon. Probably the deadline will be July 1st. Hope you all can make it. If you know of anyone who has played in the past who hasn’t gotten this invitation, please have them contact us. We’re trying not leave anyone out. Cathy O’Connor Ted Seitz Reality has a well-known liberal bias.
Stephen Co
Let the nations be glad and sing for joy…. —Psalm 67:4 (KJV) My wife was poring over a map of Europe. “Look, Danny. My homeland is a tiny little country. I had no idea it was so small.” “I know, you could put maybe half a dozen Irelands inside the state of Texas.” It may be small, but Ireland has made a huge impression on the world. More than a dozen US presidents and some thirty-four million Americans trace their roots to Ireland, including my own auburn bride. Officially, Saint Patrick’s Day honors the missionary who came to Ireland about 1,600 years ago. There he started hundreds of churches and baptized thousands, thus raising the moral profile of Ireland. But most of his life is a mystery and forgotten. Unofficially, Saint Patrick’s Day is everybody’s opportunity to be Irish for a day, regardless of religion or nationality. By the simple act of wearing green, I can be lucky or bonny or practice a bit of blarney. In short, I can be happy for a day. There are many ways to celebrate the day. Some daring types dye their hair green or wear shamrock tattoos. Others march in parades or attend Irish festivals, where they dance an Irish jig or enjoy an Irish stew. More serious types demonstrate for green causes or go to spiritual retreats, where they pray for missionaries. Yes, I will wear green today, so I don’t get pinched. And I will listen to some fine Irish music, starting with my favorite, “Danny Boy.” I will also pray for some of my former students who are currently missionaries in Ireland. Most of all, I will try to be happy for the day. That’s what it’s really all about, isn’t it? And if I can be happy for one day, why not every day? There is much to be happy about, God. Help me find a reason to sing with joy every day. —Daniel Schantz Digging Deeper: Ps 16:9; Is 55:12
Guideposts (Daily Guideposts 2014)
You’re right: if there’s sentient life behind the border, it probably won’t share my goals. Unlike the people in this room, who all want exactly the same things in life as I do, and have precisely the same tastes in food, art, music, and sex. Unlike the people of Schur, and Cartan, and Zapata — who I came here in the hope of protecting, after losing my own home — who doubtless celebrate all the same festivals, delight in the same songs and stories, and gather every fortieth night to watch actors perform the same plays, in the same language, from the same undisputed canon, as the people I left behind. “If there’s sentient life behind the border, of course we couldn’t empathize with it. These creatures are unlikely to possess cute mammalian neonate faces, or anything else we might mistake for human features. None of us could have the imagination to get over such insurmountable barriers, or the wit to apply such difficult abstractions as the General Intelligence theorem — though since every twelve-year-old on my home world was required to master that result, it must be universally known on this side of the border. “You’re right: we should give up responsibility for making any difficult moral judgments, and surrender to the dictates of natural selection. Evolution cares so much about our happiness that no one who’s obeyed an inherited urge has ever suffered a moment’s regret for it. History is full of joyful case studies of people who followed their natural instincts at every opportunity — fucking whoever they could, stealing whatever they could, destroying anything that stood in their way — and the verdict is unanimous: any behavior that ever helped someone disseminate their genes is a recipe for unalloyed contentment, both for the practitioners, and for everyone around them.
Greg Egan (Schild's Ladder)
Many a time when I sat in the balcony, or hanging garden, on which my window opened, I have watched her rising in the air on her radiant wings, and in a few moments groups of infants below, catching sight of her, would soar upward with joyous sounds of greeting; clustering and sporting around her, so that she seemed a very centre of innocent delight. When I have walked with her amidst the rocks and valleys without the city, the elk-deer would scent or see her from afar, come bounding up, eager for the caress of her hand, or follow her footsteps, till dismissed by some musical whisper that the creature had learned to comprehend. It is the fashion among the virgin Gy-ei to wear on their foreheads a circlet, or coronet, with gems resembling opals, arranged in four points or rays like stars. These are lustreless in ordinary use, but if touched by the vril wand they take a clear lambent flame, which illuminates, yet not burns. This serves as an ornament in their festivities, and as a lamp, if, in their wanderings beyond their artificial lights, they have to traverse the dark. There are times, when I have seen Zee’s thoughtful majesty of face lighted up by this crowning halo, that I could scarcely believe her to be a creature of mortal birth, and bent my head before her as the vision of a being among the celestial orders. But never once did my heart feel for this lofty type of the noblest womanhood a sentiment of human love. Is it that, among the race I belong to, man’s pride so far influences his passions that woman loses to him her special charm of woman if he feels her to be in all things eminently superior to himself? But by what strange infatuation could this peerless daughter of a race which, in the supremacy of its powers and the felicity of its conditions, ranked all other races in the category of barbarians, have deigned to honour me with her preference?
Edward Bulwer-Lytton (The Coming Race)
The village square teemed with life, swirling with vibrant colors and boisterous chatter. The entire village had gathered, celebrating the return of their ancestral spirit. Laughter and music filled the air, carrying with it an energy that made Kitsune smile. Paper lanterns of all colors floated lazily above, their delicate glow reflecting on the smiling faces below. Cherry blossoms caught in the playful breeze, their sweet, earthy scent settling over the scene. At the center, villagers danced with unbridled joy, the rhythm of the taiko drums and the melody of flutes guiding their steps. To the side, a large table groaned under the weight of a feast. Sticky rice balls, steamed dumplings, seaweed soup, sushi, and more filled the air with a mouthwatering aroma. As she approached the table, she was greeted warmly by the villagers, who offered her food, their smiles genuine and welcoming. She filled a plate and sat at a table with Goro and Sota, overlooking the celebration. The event brought back a flood of memories of a similar celebration from her childhood—a time when everything was much simpler and she could easily answer the question who are you? The memory filled her heart with a sweet sadness, a reminder of what she lost and what had carved the road to where she was now. Her gaze fell on the dancing villagers, but she wasn’t watching them. Not really. Her attention was fully embedded in her heart ache, longing for the past, for the life that was so cruelly ripped away from her. “I think... I think I might know how to answer your question,” she finally said, her voice soft and steady, barely audible over the cacophony of festivity around them. “Oh?” Goro responded, his face alight with intrigue. “I would have to tell you my story.” Kitsune’s eyes reflected the somber clouds of her past. Goro swallowed his bite of food before nodding. “Let us retire to the dojo, and you can tell me.” They retreated from the bustling square, leaving behind the chaos of the celebration. The sounds of laughter and chatter and drums carried away by distance. The dojo, with its bamboo and sturdy jungle planks, was bathed in the soft luminescence of the moonlight, the surface of its wooden architecture glistening faintly under the glow. They stepped into the silent tranquility of the building, and Kitsune made her way to the center, the smooth, cool touch of the polished wooden floor beneath her providing a sense of peace. Assuming the lotus position, she calmed herself, ready to speak of memories she hadn’t confronted in a long time. Not in any meaningful way at least. Across from her, Goro settled, his gaze intense yet patient, encouraging her with a gentle smile like he somehow already understood her story was hard to verbalize.
Pixel Ate (Kitsune the Minecraft Ninja: A middle-grade adventure story set in a world of ninjas, magic, and martial arts)
And if you wish to receive of the ancient city an impression with which the modern one can no longer furnish you, climb—on the morning of some grand festival, beneath the rising sun of Easter or of Pentecost—climb upon some elevated point, whence you command the entire capital; and be present at the wakening of the chimes. Behold, at a signal given from heaven, for it is the sun which gives it, all those churches quiver simultaneously. First come scattered strokes, running from one church to another, as when musicians give warning that they are about to begin. Then, all at once, behold!—for it seems at times, as though the ear also possessed a sight of its own,—behold, rising from each bell tower, something like a column of sound, a cloud of harmony. First, the vibration of each bell mounts straight upwards, pure and, so to speak, isolated from the others, into the splendid morning sky; then, little by little, as they swell they melt together, mingle, are lost in each other, and amalgamate in a magnificent concert. It is no longer anything but a mass of sonorous vibrations incessantly sent forth from the numerous belfries; floats, undulates, bounds, whirls over the city, and prolongs far beyond the horizon the deafening circle of its oscillations. Nevertheless, this sea of harmony is not a chaos; great and profound as it is, it has not lost its transparency; you behold the windings of each group of notes which escapes from the belfries. You can follow the dialogue, by turns grave and shrill, of the treble and the bass; you can see the octaves leap from one tower to another; you watch them spring forth, winged, light, and whistling, from the silver bell, to fall, broken and limping from the bell of wood; you admire in their midst the rich gamut which incessantly ascends and re-ascends the seven bells of Saint-Eustache; you see light and rapid notes running across it, executing three or four luminous zigzags, and vanishing like flashes of lightning. Yonder is the Abbey of Saint-Martin, a shrill, cracked singer; here the gruff and gloomy voice of the Bastille; at the other end, the great tower of the Louvre, with its bass. The royal chime of the palace scatters on all sides, and without relaxation, resplendent trills, upon which fall, at regular intervals, the heavy strokes from the belfry of Notre-Dame, which makes them sparkle like the anvil under the hammer. At intervals you behold the passage of sounds of all forms which come from the triple peal of Saint-Germain-des-Prés. Then, again, from time to time, this mass of sublime noises opens and gives passage to the beats of the Ave Maria, which bursts forth and sparkles like an aigrette of stars. Below, in the very depths of the concert, you confusedly distinguish the interior chanting of the churches, which exhales through the vibrating pores of their vaulted roofs. Assuredly, this is an opera which it is worth the trouble of listening to. Ordinarily, the noise which escapes from Paris by day is the city speaking; by night, it is the city breathing; in this case, it is the city singing. Lend an ear, then, to this concert of bell towers; spread over all the murmur of half a million men, the eternal plaint of the river, the infinite breathings of the wind, the grave and distant quartette of the four forests arranged upon the hills, on the horizon, like immense stacks of organ pipes; extinguish, as in a half shade, all that is too hoarse and too shrill about the central chime, and say whether you know anything in the world more rich and joyful, more golden, more dazzling, than this tumult of bells and chimes;—than this furnace of music,—than these ten thousand brazen voices chanting simultaneously in the flutes of stone, three hundred feet high,—than this city which is no longer anything but an orchestra,—than this symphony which produces the noise of a tempest.
Victor Hugo (The Hunchback of Notre Dame)
Reaching for his water glass, Jack rubbed his thumb over the film of condensation on the outside. Then he shot me a level glance as if taking up a challenge. “My turn,” he said. I smiled, having fun. “You’re going to guess my perfect day? That’s too easy. All it would involve is earplugs, blackout shades, and twelve hours of sleep.” He ignored that. “It’s a nice fall day—” “There’s no fall in Texas.” I reached for a cube of bread with little shreds of basil embedded in it. “You’re on vacation. There’s fall.” “Am I by myself or with Dane?” I asked, dipping a corner of the bread into a tiny dish of olive oil. “You’re with a guy. But not Dane.” “Dane doesn’t get to be part of my perfect day?” Jack shook his head slowly, watching me. “New guy.” Taking a bite of the dense, delicious bread, I decided to humor him. “Where are New Guy and I vacationing?” “New England. New Hampshire, probably.” Intrigued, I considered the idea. “I’ve never been that far north.” “You’re staying in an old hotel with verandas and chandeliers and gardens.” “That sounds nice,” I admitted. “You and the guy go driving through the mountains to see the color of the leaves, and you find a little town where there’s a crafts festival. You stop and buy a couple of dusty used books, a pile of handmade Christmas ornaments, and a bottle of genuine maple syrup. You go back to the hotel and take a nap with the windows open.” “Does he like naps?” “Not usually. But he makes an exception for you.” “I like this guy. So what happens when we wake up?” “You get dressed for drinks and dinner, and you go down to the restaurant. At the table next to yours, there’s an old couple who looks like they’ve been married at least fifty years. You and the guy take turns guessing the secret of a long marriage. He says it’s lots of great sex. You say it’s being with someone who can make you laugh every day. He says he can do both.” I couldn’t help smiling. “Pretty sure of himself, isn’t he?” “Yeah, but you like that about him. After dinner, the two of you dance to live orchestra music.” “He knows how to dance?” Jack nodded. “His mother made him take lessons when he was in grade school.” I forced myself to take another bite of bread, chewing casually. But inside I felt stricken, filled with unexpected yearning. And I realized the problem: no one I knew would have come up with that day for me. This is a man, I thought, who could break my heart.
Lisa Kleypas (Smooth Talking Stranger (Travises, #3))
We admire Sufism in the West for its tolerance, mysticism, and poetry, its ecstatic rituals, its music, even. But it’s also, especially in rural parts, a religion that bears more than a casual resemblance to late medieval Catholicism. It encourages the veneration of saint-like figures at special shrines and their celebration at festivities.
Dan Eaton (The Secret Gospel)
ave you noticed the focus these days is back on the simple things of life? What's the first thing you do when you pick a rose? You smell the fragrance. Maybe it brings back a memory of the time you picked flowers for your mom. Perhaps it's time to recapture some of that girlhood simplicity. A lavender sachet in your drawer can be an unexpected and simple pleasure. Spray a little cologne on your notepaper or even on the bathroom throw rug. Or better yet, boil a little pot of cinnamon and enjoy the aroma. Put on lively music while you do your housework. Light candles for a quiet yet festive atmosphere. When we find satisfaction in the little things in life, we are happier and more willing to look for the positive in bigger things. olor in your home can make a world of difference. It can help you redefine spaces. If an area is too large, add a throw rug in a complementary color and create a "get together" spot. Add some soft colored curtains for a change of seasons. The idea is to create intimacy, a place that's inviting on a chilly evening or a warm spring afternoon. The richer the colors, the more welcoming the space. Red is great for warmth. Go for it! And shades of cranberry and plum work well. Experiment and step out of your comfort zone. Your home can be a place that gives you a feeling of quiet for thinking about what really counts in life and also be a festive atmosphere for celebrating. on't put all your emotional eggs in one basket. Our work consumes much of our time, and that's natural. And for some of you, that's 95 percent of your awake hours. Is it time to change your focus-to make life a little easier and less stressful for
Emilie Barnes (365 Things Every Woman Should Know)
We admire Sufism in the West for its tolerance, mysticism, and poetry, its ecstatic rituals, its music, even. But it’s also, especially in rural parts, a religion that bears more than a casual resemblance to late medieval Catholicism. It encourages the veneration of saint-like figures at special shrines and their celebration at festivities. It’s something the fundamentalist mullahs abhor. Just as the Protestants smashed icons, prohibited carnivals, and defaced cathedrals, the Wahhabists insist on a reformed style of Islam, purged of all that. Remember all the TV footage from 1996. When the Taliban took over in Afghanistan, their first task was stamping that stuff out.
Dan Eaton (The Secret Gospel)
inside the white man rages a music festival for lumberjacks.
Christian Rudder (Dataclysm: Love, Sex, Race, and Identity--What Our Online Lives Tell Us about Our Offline Selves)
La “Crisi Esistenziale” di chi ama l’amore e ha il coraggio di amare. Nell’epoca dove tante cose sembrano andate perse, e dove molti valori sembrano pian piano scomparsi, si trova spazio e l’ispirazione di far nascere una nuova canzone, con la quale si vuole comunicare i tanti disagi che il mondo attuale si appresta a vivere, le tante problematiche che spesso attanagliano l’essere umano, sempre preso da se stesso, e molto spesso distratto da tutte le cose che il mondo e la vita offrono. E' cosi che nasce “Crisi Esistenziale” il nuovo brano che dà il via al nuovo album di Savio De Martino, cantautore dalle mille risorse artistiche, un brano scritto dallo stesso Cantautore, sia per la parte letteraria, che per la parte musicale, un brano voluto, un testo ricercato, una canzone necessaria, una sorta di protesta, un modo di gridare e poter dire, BASTA !!! Questo stesso brano è stato anche proposto alla candidatura per le nuove proposte di Sanremo Giovani 2015, proprio perche’ i giovani possano valorizzare la propria vita e il futuro, trovando stimoli nuovi, trovando aiuto in chi ha potere, costruirsi un domani fatto di sogni da poter realizzare, Savio De Martino ancora una volta riesce a regalare nuove emozioni, il suo essere cosi poliedrico, rende questo artista, seppur giovane, capace di mettersi sempre in gioco e in discussione con vari generi musicali. Le sue tendenze variano dal Pop al Jazz, dal Blues alla buona Musica Leggera, in tanti anni di gavetta e di carriera è sempre riuscito a dire la sua, regalando al pubblico che lo segue con affetto e stima, tante emozioni e soprattutto tanta energia positiva. Lui innamorato della vita, innamorato della musica, e speranzoso che le cose e il mondo puo’ cambiare, una crisi cosi mondiale, dovrebbe far riflettere molte persone, e sensibilizzare chi ha il potere di essere a capo di tutto, ecco perché nasce questo nuovo brano per il 2015, dal titolo "Crisi Esistenziale". Genesi di Crisi Esistenziale di Savio De Martino Testo, Musica e Produzione sono di Savio De Martino attraverso la S.D.M. Production, la distribuzione avviene grazie alla Zeus Record S.R.L., gli arrangiamenti sono di Giuseppe Balsamo e Savio De Martino, le riprese video di “Pino Baylon Video” e la registrazione e mixaggio sono stati effettuati presso lo studio SG SOUND MUSIC ITALY di Savio De Martino. Il video è già disponibile su YouTube.
Savio De Martino
Crisi Esistenziale” - (Testo e Musica : Savio De Martino) CHI SONO IO PER SENTIRMI UN DIO, E CHI SEI TU PER DECIDERE, CHI SIAMO NOI NON LO SAPREMO MAI, MA CERTO STA’ CHE NON SIAMO EROI, IL MONDO VA’ CONSUMANDOSI, LA TERRA E’ ORMAI FUOCO E CENERE, LA GIOVENTU’ NON LAVORA PIU’, L’ECONOMIA NON PRODUCE.. RIT. FERMATI, NON COMMETTERE ALTRI DANNI, BASTA METTERSI NEI PANNI, DI CHI HA PERSO OGNI RAGIONE, E VORREBBE QUALCOSA DI PIU’, RITROVANDO QUEI VALORI, QUI SI MUORE PER UN NIENTE, TUTTI SANNO MA SI MENTE, E LA GENTE NON CE LA FA’ PIU’… A PAGARE GLI ERRORI DI CHISSA’, A PARLARE DI COSE CHE NON SA’, NON C’E’ PIU’ SENSO DI DOVERE E SENSO DI MORALITA’, NON C’E’ VITA CHE POSSA TOGLIERE IL DIRITTO DI VIVERE PERCHE’, OGNI ANIMA E’ UN DONO E VA VISSUTA E UN’OPPORTUNITA’.. CHI SONO IO FRA MILIARDI NOI, SEMBRIAMO ORMAI SOLO NUMERI, E CHI SEI TU CHE HAI SETE DI POTERE, CHE PENSI DI DOVER COMANDARE, E NON E’ MAI TARDI PER CAMBIARE, LA LIBERTA’ STA ANCHE NELLO SPERARE, IL MONDO E’ LIBERO DI AMARE, E LO SI FA’ SENZA GUERRE.. RIT. FERMATI, NON COMMETTERE ALTRI DANNI, BASTA METTERSI NEI PANNI, DI CHI HA PERSO OGNI RAGIONE, E VORREBBE QUALCOSA DI PIU’, RITROVANDO QUEI VALORI, QUI SI MUORE PER UN NIENTE, TUTTI SANNO MA SI MENTE, E LA GENTE NON CE LA FA’ PIU’… NON CE LA FA PIU’… NOI SIAMO UNA GENERAZIONE, CHE NON SA’ PIU’ DOVE ANDARE, COLPA DI UNA CONFUSIONE, CHE CI PORTA A SBAGLIARE QUI C’E’… CRISI ESISTENZIALE..CRISI ESISTENZIALE..CRISI ESISTENZIALE…!
Savio De Martino
Her feet shifted underneath her. “I’m not sure what troubles you.” The wolf prowled, though he sat in a great chair. His uneasiness made her skin tight and her heart race. Hakan was a handsome man, very appealing to all of the fairer sex tonight with his black jerkin stretched across broad shoulders. He had shaved for the Glima festival, and his blonde hair, lighter from summer, loosened from the leather tie. “Many thoughts trouble me tonight, but Astrid’s not one of them.” In the dim light of the longhouse, his white teeth gleamed against his tanned face. “Does your head ail you?” She clasped her hands together, comfortable with the role of nurturing thrall. “Nay, but ‘twould please me if you sat close to me and played your harp.” “Music would be pleasant.” Skittish and studying him under the veil of her lashes, Helena retrieved her harp. She sat cross-legged on a pelt near his chair. ‘Twas easy to strum a soothing song and lose herself in the delicate notes her fingers plucked. But when the last note faded, the restless wolf stirred on his throne, unpacified. “Why did you play that game with Astrid? Letting her think more goes on between us?” Ice-blue eyes pinned her, yet, ‘twas his voice, dangerous and soft, that did things to her. “I…I don’t know.” Her own voice faltered as warmth flushed her skin. Glowing embers molded his face with dim light. Hakan leaned forward, resting both elbows on his knees. His sinewy hand plucked the harp from her, placing it on the ground. “Why?” Hakan’s fingertips tilted her chin.
Gina Conkle (Norse Jewel (Norse, #1))
For some reason, she thought of how the old people wept when they played fado music at the annual Portuguese Festival. Saudade , her great-aunt Del called it: homesick music. But according to her father, the emotion was about more than place. It was a profound longing for everything that was lost and would never be regained.
Patry Francis (The Orphans of Race Point)
A pictograph of a Chinese drum and cymbal set , played at all the festivals, symbolized music and pleasure. The Chinese first simplified it to , then wrote the final form 楽, meaning music or pleasure. Used as a word by itself, generally meaning pleasure, it is pronounced TANOSHI-I. In compound words it is pronounced RAKU or GAKU. 音楽 ONGAKU, sound-music, means music. 気楽 KIRAKU, spirit-pleasure, means happy-go-lucky or carefree. A 楽器 GAKKI, music-utensil, is a musical instrument.
Len Walsh (Read Japanese Today: The Easy Way to Learn 400 Practical Kanji)
¡Zape! (Shoo!) Go away, go away, espíritu maligno (bad spirit)!” they sang. “Go back to where you came from!” The festive musical celebration combined the prayers and songs with expressive dancing to the rhythm of percussion and string instruments, which accompanied the child’s ascent into heaven, where she would become an angel. Women, men and children ate, drank, prayed, sang and danced. They also played games like la gallina ciega (the blind chicken) where children tried to escape the touch of a blindfolded child who would walk around trying to feel for them. Whoever she touched was disqualified from the game. The baquiné lasted throughout the night. In a time when so many children perished to disease, this was a way for the child’s loved ones to say good-bye and endure the painful loss. But when all were gone, the crude reality set in. Manuel will never forget the image of those poor parents, devastated, sitting alone right next to the altar where their child lay dead, weeping desperately at her loss. He prayed for Ana’s soul. He prayed for those parents. And he prayed that he would never have to suffer the agony of losing a child.
Yasmin Tirado-Chiodini (Antonio's Will)
Gem Archer was quickly promoted to lead guitar during Champagne Supernova at the Benicassim Festival in Spain in August 2000
Tom Boniface-Webb (Modern Music Masters - Oasis)
On the road, I met couples traveling in RVs and discovered that a national roving group called RV Women provided campgrounds and community. Other gatherings were massive and seasonal—most famously, the Michigan Womyn’s Music Festival.
Gloria Steinem (My Life on the Road)
New Year’s Eve and New Year’s Day are usually huge celebrations in Bulgaria. People traditionally dine out at fine restaurants, where they are entertained by popular artists or host parties at their homes. Gabby decided to invite her friends to the restaurant where she was working that night. That way, they could add a modern spin to old traditions. This was one of the downfalls of being a hospitality worker—working during holidays. After Gabby’s shift ended, long after midnight, all three of them roamed the festive streets of New York. The crisp air was filled with music and good cheer. People were dancing in the streets; the three amigos joined them, dancing, laughing, and having a great time. " The Porcelain Doll, Part IV, Chapter 4 Holidays
Desislava Kaludova
This was how we fought war. We drowned the battle sounds in the din of festive music and spent our time on song, dance and ritual.
Ijen Kim (The Sunset Emperor)
Partly thanks to Helsinki’s Sibelius Academy, Finnish musical education is among the best in the world, with Finnish conductors, singers and musicians performing with some of the world’s top orchestras. There are some excellent classical-music festivals in Finland.
Lonely Planet Finland
On a street around the corner from my coauthor’s house the parents have organized themselves into what they call “the little block that can.” Social relations are deliberately cultivated among the families living on this block. There are benches and picnic tables outside several of the homes where parents and kids of all ages gather. The children have learned to relate to all the adults on this street as attachment figures, surrogate aunts and uncles. Once a year the street is shut off to traffic for what, in effect, is a village festival. There are games, food is served, music is played from loudspeakers. The local fire department drives up with a red engine and children frolic in the spray of the fire hose.
Gordon Neufeld (Hold On to Your Kids: Why Parents Need to Matter More Than Peers)
He hopes we'll visit again soon. Perhaps in June, to see the emerald-colored frogs that stick to the stalks and attend Gion Matsuri, a festival where women dress in summer kimonos and the shops are decorated with art. There are floats in the evening and music spills onto the streets.
Emiko Jean (Tokyo Ever After (Tokyo Ever After, #1))
The truth was he’d won the moment he set foot on Russian soil, and now the world knew it. He may have come in second, but he’d gone further than any other American—Black or white. And he hadn’t taken lessons from age three, or attended music festivals at age ten, or been drilled relentlessly by elite private teachers.
Brendan Slocumb (The Violin Conspiracy)
Nietzsche hoped that Bayreuth would be the fulfillment of his Greco-German dreams—a modern festival along Hellenic lines, fusing Apollonian and Dionysian elements, presented before an audience of elite aesthetes. Wagner, for his part, clung to his fantasy of a great popular festival, open to people of all backgrounds. Supporters were building up an international network of Wagner Societies, whose members made advance contributions in exchange for tickets. Through their patronage, Wagner hoped to keep admission free. By 1873, fund-raising was lagging, especially among German notables. Two of the biggest donors were, reputedly, Abdülaziz, the sultan of the Ottoman Empire, and Isma’il Pasha, the khedive of Egypt.
Alex Ross (Wagnerism: Art and Politics in the Shadow of Music)
With lively bluegrass music playing in the background, Nora started to arrange a table display designed to appeal to the festival attendees heading to the Balloon Fest, the Craft Beer Fest, or the Mountain Bike Fest. “Balloons, beer, and bikes? I’m picturing Pennywise getting a DUI at the X Games.
Ellery Adams (Ink and Shadows (Secret, Book, & Scone Society, #4))
India is a place where all states have their different cultures, rituals, traditions, histories, philosophy, family structure and marriage , foods, visual arts, popular media, Clothing, festivals, languages , dance, music. If you want to explore all of these things with the help of one Indian visa. Apply for e- tourist visa India ✈️
Indian visa
Best Budget Travel Destinations Ever Are you looking for a cheap flight this year? Travel + Leisure received a list of the most affordable locations this year from one of the top travel search engines in the world, Kayak. Kayak then considered the top 100 locations with the most affordable average flight prices, excluding outliers due to things like travel restrictions and security issues. To save a lot of money, go against the grain. Mexico Unsurprisingly, Mexico is at the top of the list of the cheapest places to travel in 2022. The United States has long been seen as an accessible and affordable vacation destination; low-cost direct flights are common. San José del Cabo (in Baja California Sur), Puerto Vallarta, and Cancun are the three destinations within Mexico with the least expensive flights, with January being the most economical month to visit each. Fortunately, January is a glorious month in each of these beachside locales, with warm, balmy weather and an abundance of vibrant hues, textures, and flavors to chase away the winter blues. Looking for a city vacation rather than a beach vacation? Mexico City, which boasts a diverse collection of museums and a rich Aztec heritage, is another accessible option in the country. May is the cheapest month to travel there. Chicago, Illinois Who wants to go to Chicago in the winter? Once you learn about all the things to do in this Midwest winter wonderland and the savings you can get in January, you'll be convinced. At Maggie Daley Park, spend the afternoon ice skating before warming up with some deep-dish pizza. Colombia Colombia's fascinating history, vibrant culture, and mouthwatering cuisine make it a popular travel destination. It is also inexpensive compared to what many Americans are used to paying for items like a fresh arepa and a cup of Colombian coffee. The cheapest month of the year to fly to Bogotá, the capital city, is February. The Bogota Botanical Garden, founded in 1955 and home to almost 20,000 plants, is meticulously maintained, and despite the region's chilly climate, strolling through it is not difficult. The entrance fee is just over $1 USD. In January, travel to the port city of Cartagena on the country's Caribbean coast. The majority of visitors discover that exploring the charming streets on foot is sufficient to make their stay enjoyable. Tennessee's Music City There's a reason why bachelorette parties and reunions of all kinds are so popular in Music City: it's easy to have fun without spending a fortune. There is no fee to visit a mural, hot chicken costs only a few dollars, and Honky Tonk Highway is lined with free live music venues. The cheapest month to book is January. New York City, New York Even though New York City isn't known for being a cheap vacation destination, you'll find the best deals if you go in January. Even though the city never sleeps, the cold winter months are the best time for you to visit and take advantage of the lower demand for flights and hotel rooms. In addition, New York City offers a wide variety of free activities. Canada Not only does our neighbor Mexico provide excellent deals, but the majority of Americans can easily fly to Canada for an affordable getaway. In Montréal, Quebec, you must try the steamé, which is the city's interpretation of a hot dog and is served steamed in a side-loading bun (which is also steamed). It's the perfect meal to eat in the middle of February when travel costs are at their lowest. Best of all, hot dogs are inexpensive and delicious as well as filling. The most affordable month to visit Toronto, Ontario is February. Even though the weather may make you wary, the annual Toronto Light Festival, which is completely free, is held in February in the charming and historic Distillery District. Another excellent choice at this time is the $5 Bentway Skate Trail under the Gardiner Expressway overpass.
Ovva
And Ricky wasn’t helping. In the forty-eight hours or so since we’d stepped boldly out of the friend zone, he’d been doing his best to plant seeds about the possibility of a long-term us into my head. He talked about attending music festivals that were a year away, posited taking a trip to Puerto Rico in February to escape the worst of winter. Yesterday, he’d even entertained the possibility of me
Shirlene Obuobi (On Rotation)
Later, I sat down drunk on the corner of Carondelet and Canal Streets, listening for the rumble of the streetcar that would take me back uptown to my apartment, watching the evening sun bleed from the streets, the city shifting into night, when it truly became New Orleans: the music, the constant festival, the smell of late evening dinners pouring out, layering the beer-soaked streets, prostitutes, clubs with DJs, rowdy gay bars, dirty strip clubs, the insane out for a walk, college students vomiting in trash cans, daiquiri bars lit up like supermarkets, washing-machine-sized mixers built into the wall spinning every color of daiquiri, lone trumpet players, grown women crying, clawing at men in suits, portrait painters, spangers (spare change beggars), gutter punks with dogs, kids tap-dancing with spinning bike wheels on their heads, the golden cowboy frozen on a milk crate, his golden gun pointed at a child in the crowd, fortune-tellers, psycho preachers, mumblers, fighters, rock-faced college boys out for a date rape, club chicks wearing silver miniskirts, horse-drawn carriages, plastic cups piling against the high curbs of Bourbon Street, jazz music pressing up against rock-and-roll cover bands, murderers, scam artists, hippies selling anything, magic shows and people on unicycles, flying cockroaches the size of pocket rockets, rats without fear, men in drag, business execs wandering drunk in packs, deciding not to tell their wives, sluts sucking dick on open balconies, cops on horseback looking down blouses, cars wading across the river of drunks on Bourbon Street, the people screaming at them, pouring drinks on the hood, putting their asses to the window, whole bars of people laughing, shot girls with test tubes of neon-colored booze, bouncers dragging skinny white boys out by their necks, college girls rubbing each other’s backs after vomiting tequila, T-shirts, drinks sold in a green two-foot tube with a small souvenir grenade in the bottom, people stumbling, tripping, falling, laughing on the sidewalk in the filth, laughing too hard to stand back up, thin rivers of piss leaking out from corners, brides with dirty dresses, men in G-strings, mangy dogs, balloon animals, camcorders, twenty-four-hour 3-4-1, free admission, amateur night, black-eyed strippers, drunk bicyclers, clouds of termites like brown mist surrounding streetlamps, ventriloquists, bikers, people sitting on mailboxes, coffee with chicory, soul singers, the shoeless, the drunks, the blissful, the ignorant, the beaten, the assholes, the cheaters, the douche bags, the comedians, the holy, the broken, the affluent, the beggars, the forgotten, and the soft spring air pregnant with every scent created by such a town.
Jacob Tomsky (Heads in Beds: A Reckless Memoir of Hotels, Hustles, and So-Called Hospitality)
You may think of myths as worlds of light sabers, rings of power, and enchanted spells. Hip-Hop is also a mythical place. A place free from strangling bonds of racism, sexism and bigotry. A place where the only currency is your skills with a mic, a turntable, or a drum machine. Hip-Hop is filled with faraway lands populated by dragons, wizards and knights - places like Marcy Projects, 5th Ward, Compton, Shaolin and Strong Island. Our knights are MC's, B-Boys, B-Girls, DJs, producers and graf artists.
Wes Jackson (Ten Years Fresh: The Story Of The Brooklyn Hip-Hop Festival)
I had been defining entrepreneurship as withstanding discomfort for unreasonably long periods of time, and he was literally following his bliss. He kicked off his now legendary career by cofounding the Warped Tour, the longest-running traveling music festival in the United States. While I was fighting to get the debt monkey off my back, he had cofounded the coolest circus ever.
E. Keller Fitzsimmons (Lost in Startuplandia: Wayfinding for the Weary Entrepreneur)
The major festival was the ludi Apollinares (games in honor of Apollo), which lasted from the sixth until the twelfth day of the month. Drama and music performances, introduced in consultation with the Sibylline Books in 212 BCE, were given. The origins of the prophecy prompting the festival’s introduction were unauthorized utterances by a prophet named Marcius, which “the fifteen men in charge of the Sibylline Books and the ceremonies prescribed in them (quindecimviri sacris faciundis)” had deemed authentic.
Sarolta A. Takács (Vestal Virgins, Sibyls, and Matrons: Women in Roman Religion)
Do I really care about this relationship? Chen Nan asked herself. After a long, convoluted debate with herself, she came to the conclusion: a definitive yes. “Love” was a strong word, but no doubt she liked Garcia. They had cultivated the relationship entirely online, and she had enjoyed the time they spent together: going on missions together in the game, screaming their heads off like a pair of lunatics at virtual music festivals, or simply just communicating, via video chat, texting, or emoji wars. They came from very different cultural backgrounds, but they’d clicked almost immediately. She and Garcia were like a dumpling and a Brazilian pastel—they may look different on the outside, but their fillings were made from the same ingredients. Our souls, his and mine, are the same, thought Chen Nan.
Kai-Fu Lee (AI 2041: Ten Visions for Our Future)
Experiences—travel, going out with friends, hanging out with your family in the park, getting lost in a music festival, camping, meeting new people, etc.—might bring more joy to your life than possessions would".
Grant Sabatier (Financial Freedom: A Proven Path to All the Money You Will Ever Need)
Experiences—travel, going out with friends, hanging out with your family in the park, getting lost in a music festival, camping, meeting new people, etc.—might bring more joy to your life than possessions would.
Grant Sabatier (Financial Freedom: A Proven Path to All the Money You Will Ever Need)
May the festival of light brighten your life. Every new day comes with a new spark of happiness. A shower of blessings from God keeps running over your house. Songs of love and music of peace make you dance and fill your soul with joy. I wish you and your family a very happy Diwali.
Mohammed Zaki Ansari ("Zaki's Gift Of Love")
Rose thought about the fair while she ate. It was a light-hearted festival in the daytime, with children running about, awful food, ridiculous games, overpriced stalls full of things no one needed but everyone bought, and music. As evening progressed, it became more and more raucous. Those who wanted to choose a mate spent time milling about, flirting in a way that would be outrageous any other time of the year. There was a matchmaking service run by the hatchery to raise funds, and a raffle to bid for particularly attractive mates. By midnight it was guaranteed to devolve into an animalistic spectacle. Inhibitions fell so low that couples would mate in full view, drawing crowds of voyeurs. “I’m leaving for my trip tomorrow,” Rose said. “I’ll have the sky to myself.” “Everyone else will be fucking,” Blossom said agreeably
K.C. Shaw (Royal Red)
Summer is for music, and it’s time to turn up the volume! Whether you're strumming a guitar by the campfire, dancing to your favorite tunes at a festival, or learning a new instrument at music school, the season’s rhythm is calling. Embrace the endless melodies, the sun-soaked jam sessions, and the vibrant beats that make summer unforgettable. Let the music move you, inspire you, and bring people together. So, grab your instrument, hit play on your summer playlist, and let the good vibes roll.
Life is Positive
In 1971, there was the concert of all concerts, the Soul to Soul Music Festival, which was staged on March 6 as a celebration of Ghana’s fourteenth anniversary of independence. It was held in Accra, at Black Star Square, which is now called Independence Square, and it was fourteen hours long, ending at dawn. A number of Americans came to perform, like Wilson Pickett, Ike and Tina Turner, the Staple Singers, Santana, and Roberta Flack. For months before and for months afterward, Soul to Soul was the talk of the nation. Every town attempted their own mini replica, inviting multiple bands, trying to pack the venues and keep the show going until the crowd was knackered.
John Dramani Mahama (My First Coup d'Etat: And Other True Stories from the Lost Decades of Africa)
While hierarchy is about exclusion, festivity generates inclusiveness. The music invites everyone to the dance.
Barbara Ehrenreich (Dancing in the Streets: A History of Collective Joy)
The University of Breslau notified Johannes Brahms that he would receive an honorary doctorate in philosophy. Though he originally planned to write a handwritten note of acknowledgment, a friend convinced him protocol required him to write a musical offering. Thus, he wrote Academic Festival Overture, an irreverent compilation of student drinking songs.
Skye Warren (Concerto (North Security, #2))
You can get yourself all fucked up on revolutionary élan, just like you can drink alcohol or take drugs. But it warps your senses and causes you to make poor decisions. It isn’t real, and you’re going to pay for it later. If you want the feeling of mass ecstasy you should go to a music festival instead of encouraging vulnerable young people to go out and get killed.
Vincent Bevins (If We Burn: The Mass Protest Decade and the Missing Revolution)
One version of the story has it that Furtwängler went to Toscanini’s dressing room after a concert in the large Festival Theater. Toscanini was curt. “Go away. I don’t want to have anything to do with you.” “Why?” asked Furtwängler. “Because you area Nazi.” “That is a lie!” “That is no lie. I am well aware that you do not belong to the Party. I also know you have helped your Jewish friends. You even meet them outside Germany. But all that is unimportant after the fact that you work for Hitler. Now get out.” 5
Sam H. Shirakawa (The Devil's Music Master: The Controversial Life and Career of Wilhelm Furtwängler)
Me: In college, I was clipping my toenails and ended up having to wear an eye patch for a month. Mr. Wrong Number: Disgusting, but impressive. #2? Me: I once got stuck in a tipped-over porta-potty. Mr. Wrong Number: Good Lord. Me: Music festival, strong winds. The thing blew over, door side down. I still have nightmares. Mr. Wrong Number: I want to move on to #3, but I have to know how long you were trapped. Me: Twenty minutes but it felt like days. My drunk friends lifted it enough for me to squeeze through the door crack. Mr. Wrong Number: I’m assuming you were . . . Me: Absolutely covered in waste. Mr. Wrong Number: I just threw up a little in my mouth. Me: As you should. And just to add a cherry to the top of your entertainment sundae, the story ends in me being doused with gallons of high-powered water that were dispensed by a fire hose. Mr. Wrong Number: Wow. You definitely can’t top #2. Me: Oh, you ignorant little fool. #2 is but a warm-up. Mr. Wrong Number: Well give me #3, then. I thought about it for a minute. I mean, there were hundreds of embarrassing bad luck moments I could’ve shared with him.
Lynn Painter (Mr. Wrong Number (Mr. Wrong Number, #1))
The Song of the Swan and the Raven They called themselves poets, They were great grammarians, They spoke very well with their mouths, But, They didn't speak with their hearts, And the princess Sought the Alpine Star, From the North, the South, The East and the West, But they did not find it, From the lands where men, Forgot their Love for War, And learned to love gold more, More than Love itself, Now, they lose wars and win Alms, And sell their Nordic and Mediterranean beauty, To be loved at the Altar of Aphrodite, But Aphrodite, Loved War and married the lame Blacksmith, Who gave her alms (of affection) And from the stolen Rose, From the Daughter of the King of Phoenicia, Taken to the Tropics, From the Sons of Caesar, To Tropical Lands, Was born a Scion of Hades, Who harbored darkness within, But also kept an infinite love, And he Looked at all this, And contemplated so many times, The Face of Medusa, That his gaze turned to Stone, Everything he couldn't see, And what became immobile, Moved everything else, Moved Georgios, Who listened to the soft music, Of Satyrs in Carnival, And blasphemed, Mocked and threw stones at those, Bacchantes, For the wine no longer inebriated, It became juice, Music, like Water, Needs to flow, For Bacchus of this land, Made it his Abode, And banished the other Gods, And said that in the Earthly Eden, There would only be drunkenness and indolence, And everyone was happy, But, they discovered that, Even in Bacchic Lands, One hears the Sad suffering, For in the Festivities, There was no joy, They were masked balls, In which everyone cried, But the masks showed joy, And Mirrors were placed on the walls, Narcissus, however, Refused to see his image, He knew that drowning again, In his own vanity, Would bring back the Apple, The golden apple, And the Goddesses, Would war, And there would be no more peace, In that Constant War, And we were made captives, Of drunkenness, Watched and Hounded, For, The King's Face was Guarded, Cured of Leprosy, But, His disease was Love, The love for those Christians, Who no longer believed in God, The priests who lost Faith, The Daughters of Eve who choked, On the apple, And the sons of Adam, Who in the deepest cave of Erebus, Were bound, And seeing the shadow of distant lights, Were blinded, And even if, Like Argos, They had a hundred eyes, They would see nothing, Beyond what their scant minds, And their scant hearts, Were incapable of Beholding.
Geverson Ampolini
BayFestSD.com hosts the San Diego Bayfest and Mission Bayfest, premier music festivals in San Diego known for featuring top reggae and alternative rock artists. Held at scenic venues like Waterfront Park, these festivals showcase renowned acts such as Sublime, Atmosphere, and Goldfinger. Our mission is to create unforgettable experiences through well-organized events, VIP offerings, diverse food vendors, and exclusive merchandise, enriching San Diego’s cultural landscape with live music.
Bayfest San Diego
Despite the promises of utopian hedonism, many youth and middle-aged adults quickly enticed by these did not escape from their addictions easily, if at all. And, to the shock of their fans, the lives of Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, Jim Morrison and numerous other acid trippin' rock musicians also ended quickly like the closing blues beats from one of their most popular songs. Even Max Yasgur himself died just 19 months after the Woodstock Festival of a heart attack at the age of 53.
Philip Alajajian (The 1960's Social Movements - Pathways to the Final Apostasy)
Francisco, who had lived in the San Luis Valley his entire life and under the drought for half of that life, could barely fathom such festivities. Little girls in fiesta dresses rode painted carousel horses on a merry-go-round powered by men turning a massive wooden gear. Boys one-third his height wore crisp and dustless sombreros. The dancing was so vigorous that he felt his legs stepping out without his permission, his body an unwitting mirror. The music replaced Francisco’s blood, and he felt he could do anything. That was when the blue sky stopped, right over Antonia Alamilla, who was dancing in a white dress. He saw now that it was not blue sky at all, but rather a blue balloon whose string was tied around her wrist. When she saw Francisco in his dust-covered overalls, she immediately stopped dancing and declared, in facile Spanish, “I love dogs.” The rest of the townspeople looked on in shock. No one had heard Antonia speak since she’d been born, and once she had met Francisco, she did not stop. He asked her to be his wife, and when they were married in Bicho Raro two months later, Antonia’s tears of joy coaxed rain from the sky and ended the decade-long drought.
Maggie Stiefvater (All the Crooked Saints)
Another indication -which we have in the tampered Scripture- of the Jew's plagiarization is in Exodus 15:20 where the Egyptian women started using Hathor's Sistrum in glorification of Yahweh the cow god. The sistrum was a sacred instrument in ancient Egypt used in dances in the worship of the goddess Hathor. The ceremonial instrument shows up in two forms, either with Hathor's head or with Hathor's name (i.e. hwt hor: House of Horus) on it. Therefore, it is very obvious that Exodus 15:20 is portraying an Egyptian scenery and religion instead of a Semitic one which the Jew is trying to attribute to the Israelites. The goddess Bast is often depicted holding a sistrum, symbolizing her role as a goddess of festivity. However, we also know that this musical instrument was used from the New Kingdom on to pacify and appease the gods who turn into rebellious deities; this proves that in the New Kingdom an inverted role started taking place for the symbolism of the Lion and a process of reclaiming that deity from the Osirians (i.e. the progenitors of the Jews) was unfolding.
Ibrahim Ibrahim (The Mill of Egypt: The Complete Series Fused)
Estes Park was set in a valley surrounded by the Rocky Mountain National Park.... When I visited a few years ago, there were actually elk grazing on the golf course." "Are you serious?" "Hey, every year in October they have an Elk Festival. That's why I came here. I wanted to see it 'cause it was on my bucket list." "An Elk Festival?" Amelia laughed. "You have the most awesome things on your bucket list. Mine seem boring compared to yours." Amelia raised her brow curiously. "What was the festival like?" "It was awesome. They had an elk bugling contest, elk seminars, Native American music, dancing and storytelling. They even had bus tours that took you to see the elk grazing in the fields. It was great. I loved it." "Wait a minute," said Amelia as she tilted her head to one side. "What's an elk bugling contest?" Rick grinned. "It's the call of the elk. Anyone can compete. Whoever sounds the most like an elk wins. You can use a horn or just your own voice. When I was there, the man who won used his voice. It was really something." Amelia's eyes widened with curiosity. "How did he do it? What does it sounds like?" Rick chuckled. "Well... the call starts out with deep rich tones. Then it quickly rises to a high-pitched squealing sound and immediately drops down to a bunch of grunts.
Linda Weaver Clarke (The Mysterious Doll (Amelia Moore Detective Series #4))
Boys are broke. And when they do have money, they spend it on a trip to Colorado to see a music festival.
Mindy Kaling (Is Everyone Hanging Out Without Me? (And Other Concerns))