Pedestrian Path Quotes

I am the saint at prayer on the terrace like the peaceful beasts that graze down to the sea of Palestine. I am the scholar of the dark armchair. Branches and rain hurl themselves at the windows of my library. I am the pedestrian of the highroad by way of the dwarf woods; the roar of the sluices drowns my steps. I can see for a long time the melancholy wash of the setting sun. I might well be the child abandoned on the jetty on its way to the high seas, the little farm boy following the lane, its forehead touching the sky. The paths are rough. The hillocks are covered with broom. The air is motionless. How far away are the birds and the springs! It can only be the end of the world ahead.

Their story begins on ground level, with footsteps. They are myriad, but do not compose a series. They cannot be counted because each unit has a qualitative character: a style of tactile apprehension and kinesthetic appropriation. Their swarming mass is an innumerable collection of singularities. Their intertwined paths give their shape to spaces. They weave places together. In that respect, pedestrian movements form one of these 'real systems whose existence in fact makes up the city.' They are not localized; it is rather they that spatialize. They are no more inserted within a container than those Chinese character speakers sketch out on their hands with their fingertips.

I’m the Saint praying on a balcony - like peaceful beasts grazing along the Sea of Palestine. I’m the scholar in a plain reading chair. Branches and rain beat the library windows. I’m the pedestrian on the high road through the stunted woods; the sound of floodgates drowns out my footsteps. I stare at the melancholy wash of another golden sunset... The path is harsh. The hillocks are weed. The air is still. How far we are from birds and streams. The end of the world must be just ahead.

Too must sentiment and no reason, destroys both the path and the pedestrian.

Neurons can create time – they can destroy time – those neurons can create future, they can destroy future – those neurons can create a beautiful world, they can also create a horrible planet to live on – those neurons are both the pedestrians and the path of truth and liberty.

There are simply several different paths leading to high intelligence, and only some of these paths involve gaining consciousness. Just as airplanes fly faster than birds without ever developing feathers, so computers may come to solve problems much better than mammals without ever developing feelings. True, AI will have to analyse human feelings accurately in order to treat human illnesses, identify human terrorists, recommend human mates and navigate a street full of human pedestrians. But it could do so without having any feelings of its own. An algorithm does not need to feel joy, anger or fear in order to recognise the different biochemical patterns of joyful, angry or frightened apes.

It was not a bridle-path—merely a pedestrian's track, and the boughs spread horizontally at a height not greater than seven feet above the ground, which made it impossible to ride erect beneath them. The girl, who wore no riding-habit, looked around for a moment, as if to assure herself that all humanity was out of view, then dexterously dropped backwards flat upon the pony's back, her head over its tail, her feet against its shoulders, and her eyes to the sky. The rapidity of her glide into this position was that of a kingfisher—its noiselessness that of a hawk. Gabriel's eyes had scarcely been able to follow her. The tall lank pony seemed used to such doings, and ambled along unconcerned. Thus she passed under

The stretch of the Appian Way past the Catacombs of San Sebastiano is the least interesting and most crowded (even dangerous). Avoid it by taking the pedestrian and bike path (open daily except Wed), which begins just past the Catacombs of San Sebastiano, at the intersection with Via delle Sette Chiese. To reach the path, go through the arch at #126. The quiet path parallels the Appian Way and takes you directly to the Catacombs of San Callisto. On Wednesdays, when the gate is closed, you’ll have to stay straight on Via Appia Antica, being careful of traffic.

No Love Without Tears (The Sonnet) There is no love without tears. There is no diversity without difference. There is no revolution without smears. There's no justice without inconvenience. There is no development without flaws. There is no dignity without disrespect. There is no learning without falling. There is no heart without heartbreak. There is no path without the thorns. There is no pedestrian without weariness. There is no dream without the hardship. There's no determination without doubtfulness. Only those who have felt excruciating pain, Can help others without expecting any gain.

I realized I was scaring people. Whatever was written on my face must have been absolutely violent. I had the entire street to myself, as pedestrians and cars alike moved to get out of my path.

But there is also the HUMPED ZEBRA CROSSING, which sounds like a zoo genetics experiment gone horribly wrong. (Really it's just a pedestrian right of way path with a sleeping policeman–also known as a speed bump–in the middle).

A fleet of restored vintage trolleys ran from the West Village to Downtown. They had adorable names like Rosie, Betty, Petunia, and the Green Dragon. They dinged cheerfully down the green median of a cobblestone path. Griffin took a few shots of Megan and Josh in front of the Green Dragon before we all climbed aboard. As we looped around the neighborhood, I looked out the window and felt the breeze on my face. The West Village was a great cross section of urban Dallas life. Yuppies, families, and empty nesters commingled on the streets. Most days a breeze blew down the corridor, making it bearable, even enjoyable, to sit outside the cafés year-round. A dog-friendly café with an adjoining dog park was down the block, and a parade of pups dripped down the street, tails wagging, sopping wet from doggie pools. A couple on roller skates did tricks for pedestrians before they skated away, hand in hand. It felt vibrant and magical. Homey.

The other traffic issue concerned the park’s users. Vaux and Olmsted came up with three categories of roadway that they simply called the “Walk” (for pedestrians), the “Ride” (for horseback riding), and the “Drive” (for carriages). All together, there are today about seventy miles of Walk, Ride, and Drive wending through the park. In the master plan, none of these paths ever touched. If the Drive crossed the Walk, a bridge was constructed to pass pedestrian traffic below the carriages. Similarly, the Ride was kept separate from the other paths so that horseback riders would never have to rear up suddenly when confronted with an obstacle.

I thought you were so straightforward,” she spat out. “Fish dumped on the desk, cutting deals with rowdy Irish gangs. I thought you were an honest man of business, but you’re only a jumped-up longshoreman. Look at you! Such fancy clothes and that ridiculous little blue finch you carry everywhere. You can pretend all you want, but you’ve got filth beneath your nails that will never wash away because you are still wallowing in the gutter.” He flinched before he could mask his feelings. He’d spent a fortune on these blasted clothes and wasn’t going to apologize for working his way off the docks. She turned and darted between pedestrians to escape him, but he wouldn’t let her. Following in her path, he reached out to grab an elbow. “You can’t hurl that load of garbage and then scurry away.” “Watch me.” He pulled up alongside her. “I never took you for a coward, Mollie. Stay here and fight it out.

When space-time is curved, even the straightest possible paths acquire bumps and wiggles, because they must adapt to changes in the local geometry. Putting these ideas together, we say that bodies respond to the metric field. These bumps and wiggles in a body's space-time trajectory-in more pedestrian language, changes in its direction and speed-provide, according to general relativity, an alternative and more accurate description of the effects formerly known as gravity.

The crossing sweeper, a boy of about eight or nine years, was still busily pushing manure out of the way to make a clean path for any pedestrian who wished to reach the other side. He seemed to be one of those cheerful souls willing to make the best out of any situation. His skimpy trousers stuck to his legs, his coat was too long for him and gaped around the neck, but his enormous cap seemed to keep most of the rain off his head, except for

Usually I would find myself having to step aside while oncoming pedestrians never deviated a centimetre from their intended path, and would have walked straight into me as if I did not exist for them.

Come my friend. Come and walk with me in the path ahead that awaits you with open arms – the path of humanism – the path where every pedestrian is simply a human, not a Christian, Jew, Hindu, Muslim, Atheist, Mexican, American, Canadian, British, Australian, Russian, Asian, African, European or anything else.

Oneness is the path, Oneness is the pedestrian. Either we are all one, Or ever-battling barbarian.

No Time, No Space (The Sonnet) There is no time, no space, There is only love. There is no intellect, no philosophy, There is only love. There is no defeat, no victory, There is only love. There is no loss, no gain, There is only love. There is no path, no pedestrian, There is only love. There is no mission, no means, There is only love. All of us are either echoes of love beyond chains, Or just some traditional trash of glory and gain.

On that momentous day of my first return to my grandfather’s place in Ojoto after many years of my sojourn in America, I was lost in my thought until a light wind blew across the pedestrian path in a wooded area where I stood, caressing the trees’ leaves and small branches. The stubborn leaves swerved in all directions like untrained dancers learning to strut after consuming palm-wine from large calabash jugs. Looking up, I watched weakened leaves snapped off and gained their freedom from primordial trees. A liberation dance followed in the dense air above me before the leaves set down. Listening to beautiful sounds made by birds converging around me, as if they were singing for the newly liberated leaves, I found myself lost in the wonderment of nature. What I experienced had drawn me back to that exhilarating place for mental respite each time I returned home.

Many contemporary Yoga practitioners, especially those in Western countries, look upon āsana as a tool for achieving physical fitness and flexibility. The yogic postures have certainly demonstrated their physiological benefits in millions of cases. They improve musculoskeletal flexibility, strength, resilience, endurance, cardiovascular and respiratory efficiency, endocrine and gastrointestinal functioning, immunity, sleep, eye-hand coordination, balance. Experiments also have shown various psychological benefits, including improvement of somatic awareness, attention, memory, learning, and mood. The regular practice of postures also decreases anxiety, depression, and aggression.1 All these effects are clearly beneficial and highly desirable. Yet, the traditional purpose of āsana is something far more radical, namely to assist the Hatha-Yoga practitioner in the creation of an “adamantine body” (vajra-deha) or “divine body” (divya-deha). This is a transubstantiated body that is immortal and completely under the control of the adept’s will (which is merged with the Divine Will). It is an energy body that, depending on the adept’s wish, is either visible or invisible to the human eye. In this body, the liberated master can carry out benevolent activities with the least possible obstruction. ĀSANA AS A TOOL OF NONDUAL EXPERIENCE2 The transubstantiated body of the truly accomplished Hatha-Yoga master is, realistically speaking, out of reach for most of us—not because we are not in principle capable of realizing it but because only very few have the determination and stamina to even pursue this yogic ideal. Does this mean we have to settle for the more pedestrian benefits of posture practice? I believe there is another side to āsana, which, while not representing the ultimate possibility of our human potential, is yet a significant and necessary accomplishment on the yogic path. That is to cultivate and experience āsana as an instrument for tasting nonduality (advaita). Almost all Yoga authorities subscribe to a nondualistic metaphysics according to which Reality is singular and the world of multiplicity is either altogether false (mithyā) or merely a lower expression of that ultimate Singularity. Typically, Yoga practitioners assume that the experience of nonduality is bound to the state of ecstasy (samādhi) and that this state is hard to come by and is likely to escape them at least in this lifetime. But this belief is ill founded. In fact, it is counterproductive and should be regarded as an obstacle (vighna) on the path to enlightenment. While we might not have an experience of ecstasy, we can have an experience of nonduality. The ecstatic state is simply a special version of the nondual experience. As Karl Baier, a German professor of psychology and practitioner of Iyengar Yoga, has shown, posture practice can be an efficient means of nondual experience in which we overcome the most obvious and painful duality of body and mind.

Restrict turf to wide paths that guide pedestrians through your landscape, that draw the eye to a featured aspect of your design, or that define beds, tree groves, or various hardscapes as being purposeful and cared for. In their 2015 book, Planting in a Post-Wild World, Thomas Rainer and Claudia West suggest that we think of lawn as an area rug, not wall-to-wall carpeting. Superb advice!

the forms of the landscape – like the identities and capacities of its human inhabitants – are not imposed upon a material substrate but rather emerge as condensations or crystallizations of activity within a relational field. As people, in the course of their everyday lives, make their way by foot around a familiar terrain, so its paths, textures and contours, variable through the seasons, are incorporated into their own embodied capacities of movement, awareness and response – or into what Gaston Bachelard calls their ‘muscular consciousness’. But conversely, these pedestrian movements thread a tangled network of personalized trails through the landscape itself. Through walking, in short, landscapes are woven into life, and lives are woven into the landscape, in a process that is continuous and never-ending.

When true awareness is at play, the pedestrian becomes the path and the path becomes the pedestrian - the aware becomes the awareness and awareness becomes the aware.

As though with a single mind, this band of girls, making its way along the esplanade like a shining comet, seemed to think the crowd of people all about them was composed of beings of another species which, even if it was capable of suffering, could not move them to sympathy, as they advanced seemingly oblivious to it, forcing everyone who stood in their way to move aside, to give way as though to a locomotive bearing down upon them without the slightest likelihood that it would avoid pedestrians; and their only reaction, if some fearful or furious old gentleman, of manifestly negligible existence, whom they swept aside as they passed, hobbled urgently or ludicrously out of their path, was to exchange a look amongst themselves and burst out laughing. For anyone or anything outside their group they affected no scorn; their sincere scorn was enough. They could not see an obstacle without taking pleasure in jumping over it, either by running at it or from the standing position, because they were full to overflowing with the youthfulness which must expend itself, which even when one is sad or unwell makes one obey the needs of age rather than the mood of the day, so that one can never come upon the possibility of leaping or sliding without making a point of leaping or sliding, and deliberately punctuating one’s slow progress, as Chopin does with even the most melancholy of his phrases, with serial detours full of grace, impulsiveness and virtuosity

Electric cars are not a cure-all. While they don’t create exhaust, their brakes and tires give off tiny, toxic particles as they wear. The energy needed to manufacture them, the raw materials used in their bodies and batteries, will be an unsustainable burden on our groaning Earth if car ownership keeps increasing. For now, that relentless rise frames everything. The number of vehicles in America has more than tripled since 1960;27 in England, there’s one car for every two people.28 And the biggest growth is now in developing nations like India and China. If they follow the path we’ve taken, the world could go from about a billion cars today29 to more than 3 billion by 2050.30 What’s really needed is not just a slowing of that growth, but fewer cars altogether, of any sort. It’s a goal that’s reachable if we reorganize the places we live to be denser, more pedestrian and bike friendly, with public transportation—and newer options like car sharing—that are convenient and affordable.