Sez Quotes

Sen sez imperiya. The Empire is strong because it recognizes the value in all our people. Including you, Dinios Kol. And when the Empire is weak, it is often because a powerful few have denied us the abundance of our people.

Hooker goes up to a Yorkshireman and sez: "Will you sleep with me for a £100?" He sez: "I'm not tired but I could do with the money".

I luv the ded, this old baster sez to me when I wiz tryin to get some innfurmashin out ov him. You fukin old pervirt I sez, gettin a bit fed up by this time enyway, an slit his throate; ah asks you whare the fukin Sleeping Byootie woz, no whit kind of humpin you lyke.

Hey, like Godzilla always sez to Mothra—why don’t we go eat some place?

Miz Fitz, If my boyfriend would just once say "I'm sorry, I was wrong," I think I would die and go to heaven. -Hellbound, a Lass Miz Fitz sez: You should wish for something realistic, like world peace.

Dear Miz Fitz, My boyfriend is superhot so a lot of girls think up reasons to talk to him. It drives me... ...Out of my Mind Miz Fitz sez: Maybe he is too hot for you. Send me his photo, name, and phone number. I will check him out and get back to you.

What’s known as bleeding-edge technology,” sez Lucas. “No proven use, high risk, something only early-adoption addicts feel comfortable with.

But as we all know, rock ‘n’ roll will never die, and education too, as Henry Adams always sez, keeps going on forever.

And then I sez—‘How is anybody a-goin’ to live pattern lives, when they are a-starvin' to death? And how is anybody a-goin’ to enjoy religion when they are a-chokin’?

Don't never sez you ain't, 'cause when you sez you ain't, you is!

Open, sez me, you piece of shit.

The buzz cut and his friend came over. “You are coming with us.” The buzz cut spoke the words with a careful, starched pronunciation that made me think of Arnold Schwarzenegger, only the accent was Russian. “Sez who?” I can slay ’em with these comebacks.

Mom sez I like talk radio, teaching, and consulting 'cuz they ensure captive audiences. True or not (let Freudians decide), I'm driven by a "four eyed" mission to inform, instruct, intrigue, and inspire. Moreover, I like interactivity: If you're listening, I'm listening. Talk with me!

Louie was still scratching his head when Tim McGrath wandered over. "What did I tell you about folks that read books too much?" Tim demanded. "makes 'em queer, that's what it does. Why here's these people, as nice pleasant-spoken as you could want --but queer. Only yesterdayI was telling them they'd have to get rid of these here moles. Said I'd bring up a couple of my traps and set 'em, and she sez quick, just like she sez to you, 'No. No traps.' So I sez I'd got some good poison I could put out and he sez, 'No. No poison.

The fungus Shenidioides had originated in Shenzhen, then spread to nearby regions of China. The reigning theory, first disseminated by a prominent doctor in the Huffington Post, was that the new strain of fungal spores had inadvertently developed within factory conditions of manufacturing areas, the SEZs in China, where spores fed off the highly specific mixture of chemicals. To predict the transmission of the fever, the blogger claimed, wind patterns may be analyzed. Not only that, but the holiday traffic surrounding the mass commute of migrant factory workers back to their home villages, such as during Chinese New Year, should also be limited. Traffic carries spores.

We all live as if it is better to seek peace instead of war, to tell the truth instead of lying, to care and nurture rather than to destroy. We believe that these choices are not pointless, that it matters which way we choose to live. Yet if the Cosmic Bench is truly empty, then “who sez” that one choice is better than the others? We can argue about it, but it’s just pointless arguing, endless litigation. If the Bench is truly empty, then the whole span of human civilization, even if it lasts a few million years, will be just an infinitesimally brief spark in relation to the oceans of dead time that preceded it and will follow it. There will be no one around to remember any of it. Whether we are loving or cruel in the end would make no difference at all. Once we realize this situation there are two options. One is that we can simply refuse to think out the implications of all this. We can hold on to our intellectual belief in an empty Bench and yet live as if our choices are meaningful and as if there is a difference between love and cruelty. Why would we do that? A cynic might say that this is a way of “having one’s cake and eating it, too.” That is, you can get the benefit of having a God without the cost of following him. But there is no integrity in that. The other option is to recognize that you do know there is a God. You could accept the fact that you live as if beauty and love have meaning, as if there is meaning in life, as if human beings have inherent dignity—all because you know God exists. It is dishonest to live as if he is there and yet fail to acknowledge the one who has given you all these gifts.

​Healing is an individual quest, a solo journey, and a lonely emergence. It requires that you simply know that it’s ok to feel good again. This low, this wound, this hurt, this hollowing, and this weight – it is not yours. It is simply a reminder that you need rest, to learn, to gather strength so that you may continue after a period of convalescence. The pain was never meant to stay, to bunk-up with you forever, to keep poking at you whenever you dare smile.

Pointsman is the only one here maintaining his calm. He appears unruffled and strong. His lab coats have even begun lately to take on a Savile Row serenity, suppressed waist, flaring vents, finer material, rather rakishly notched lapels. In this parched and fallow time, he gushes affluence. After the baying has quieted down at last, he speaks, soothing: “There’s no danger.” “No danger?” screams Aaron Throwster, and the lot of them are off again muttering and growling. “Slothrop’s knocked out Dodson-Truck and the girl in one day!” “The whole thing’s falling apart, Pointsman!” “Since Sir Stephen came back, Fitzmaurice House has dropped out of our scheme, and there’ve been embarrassing inquires down from Duncan Sandys—“ “That’s the P.M.’s son-in-law, Pointsman, not good, not good!” “We’ve already begun to run into a deficit—“ “Funding,” IF you can keep your head, “is available, and will be coming in before long… certainly before we run into any serious trouble. Sir Stephen, far from being ‘knocked out,’ is quite happily at work at Fitzmaurice House, and is At Home there should any of you wish to confirm. Miss Borgesius is still active in the program, and Mr. Duncan Sandys is having all his questions answered. But best of all, we are budgeted well into fiscal ’46 before anything like a deficit begins to rear its head.” “Your Interested Parties again?” sez Rollo Groast. “Ah, I noticed Clive Mossmoon from Imperial Chemicals closeted with you day before yesterday,” Edwin Treacle mentions now. “Clive Mossmoon and I took an organic chemistry course or two together back at Manchester. Is ICI one of our, ah, sponsors, Pointsman?” “No,” smoothly, “Mossmoon, actually, is working out of Malet Street these days. I’m afraid we were up to nothing more sinister than a bit of routine coordination over the Schwarzkommando business.” “The hell you were. I happen to know Clive’s at ICI, managing some sort of polymer research.” They stare at each other. One is lying, or bluffing, or both are, or all of the above. But whatever it is Pointsman has a slight advantage. By facing squarely the extinction of his program, he has gained a great of bit of Wisdom: that if there is a life force operating in Nature, still there is nothing so analogous in a bureaucracy. Nothing so mystical. It all comes down, as it must, to the desires of men. Oh, and women too of course, bless their empty little heads. But survival depends on having strong enough desires—on knowing the System better than the other chap, and how to use it. It’s work, that’s all it is, and there’s no room for any extrahuman anxieties—they only weaken, effeminize the will: a man either indulges them, or fights to win, und so weiter. “I do wish ICI would finance part of this,” Pointsman smiles. “Lame, lame,” mutters the younger Dr. Groast. “What’s it matter?” cries Aaron Throwster. “If the old man gets moody at the wrong time this whole show can prang.” “Brigadier Pudding will not go back on any of his commitments,” Pointsman very steady, calm, “we have made arrangements with him. The details aren’t important.” They never are, in these meetings of his.

Slothrop is just settling down next to a girl in a prewar Worth frock and with a face like Tenniel’s Alice, same forehead, nose, hair, when from outside comes this most godawful clanking, snarling, crunching of wood, girls come running terrified out of the eucalyptus trees and into the house and right behind them what comes crashing now into the pallid lights of the garden but—why the Sherman Tank itself! headlights burning like the eyes of King Kong, treads spewing grass and pieces of flagstone as it manoeuvres around and comes to a halt. Its 75 mm cannon swivels until it’s pointing through the French windows right down into the room. “Antoine!” a young lady focusing in on the gigantic muzzle, “for heaven’s sake, not now. . . .” A hatch flies open and Tamara—Slothrop guesses: wasn’t Italo supposed to have the tank?—uh—emerges shrieking to denounce Raoul, Waxwing, Italo, Theophile, and the middleman on the opium deal. “But now,” she screams, “I have you all! One coup de foudre!” The hatch drops—oh, Jesus—there’s the sound of a 3-inch shell being loaded into its breech. Girls start to scream and make for the exits. Dopers are looking around, blinking, smiling, saying yes in a number of ways. Raoul tries to mount his horse and make his escape, but misses the saddle and slides all the way over, falling into a tub of black-market Jell-o, raspberry flavor, with whipped cream on top. “Aw, no . . .” Slothrop having about decided to make a flanking run for the tank when YYYBLAAANNNGGG! the cannon lets loose an enormous roar, flame shooting three feet into the room, shock wave driving eardrums in to middle of brain, blowing everybody against the far walls. A drape has caught fire. Slothrop, tripping over partygoers, can’t hear anything, knows his head hurts, keeps running through the smoke at the tank—leaps on, goes to undog the hatch and is nearly knocked off by Tamara popping up to holler at everybody again. After a struggle which shouldn’t be without its erotic moments, for Tamara is a swell enough looking twist with some fine moves, Slothrop manages to get her in a come-along and drag her down off of the tank. But loud noise and all, look—he doesn’t seem to have an erection. Hmm. This is a datum London never got, because nobody was looking. Turns out the projectile, a dud, has only torn holes in several walls, and demolished a large allegorical painting of Virtue and Vice in an unnatural act. Virtue had one of those dim faraway smiles. Vice was scratching his shaggy head, a little bewildered. The burning drape’s been put out with champagne. Raoul is in tears, thankful for his life, wringing Slothrop’s hands and kissing his cheeks, leaving trails of Jell-o wherever he touches. Tamara is escorted away by Raoul’s bodyguards. Slothrop has just disengaged himself and is wiping the Jell-o off of his suit when there is a heavy touch on his shoulder. “You were right. You are the man.” “That’s nothing.” Errol Flynn frisks his mustache. “I saved a dame from an octopus not so long ago, how about that?” “With one difference,” sez Blodgett Waxwing. “This really happened tonight. But that octopus didn’t.

economic policymakers devised an approach with the following elements: •  A shift from capital-intensive heavy industry to labor-intensive light industry. •  A focus on light industrial exports to generate the foreign exchange needed to import capital equipment. •  The establishment of special economic zones (SEZs), allowing foreign companies to set up factories on preferential terms. •  Price reforms, to reduce the power of central planners and increase the role of the market. • Increased tolerance for private enterprises.

You’re hungry, Denis?” “Really. Hey, like Godzilla always sez to Mothra–why don’t we go eat some place?

Movement is a healing narrative. Creativity is a healing narrative. Dream is a healing narrative. Nature is a healing narrative. Silence is a healing narrative. Love is a healing narrative.

Today we consciously decide to fall apart and to face the fray, knowing we must first come undone to see the infinite amount of ways we can be remade.

We forget that there is wisdom in our shadows; that which is hidden in the umbra of our wounds. It is in these places that we least expect to find a knowing because we spend little time simply being with our unwantedness.

It’s our darkness that breaks us open. It’s our heartache that refines us into a raw material and makes beautiful shapes of us. It’s our struggle that creates scars and indents upon our bodies, so we may have places for joy to pool. It’s our longing that throws us into the kiln and enkindles us. It’s our uncomfortable experiences that strip us down and bare our bones to the open fires of change.

Many Native American traditions use the word "medicine" to refer to anything that has spiritual power and that keeps us walking in beauty. Each poem, short story and prose in this book is a remedy to the things that cause us to forget what walking in beauty feels like and empowers us to re-story our limiting and repetitive narrative into multi-dimensional abstracts of art from which we can heal ourselves and our collective through. These stories have been wildcrafted from the wilderness: the one within and without - the one above and below – the one we live in now and the one our ancestors call us back to through the eaves. They seam the two worlds together to make medicine for deep and restorative healing.

As things now stand, everything is up for grabs. Nevertheless: Napalming babies is bad. Starving the poor is wicked. Buying and selling each other is depraved. Those who stood up to and died resisting Hitler, Stalin, Amin, and Pol Pot—and General Custer too—have earned salvation. Those who acquiesced deserve to be damned. There is in the world such a thing as evil. [All together now:] Sez who? God help us.6

Woak up. Got dresd. Had brekfast. Spoke wif Ergates thi ant who sed itz juss been wurk wurk wurk 4 u lately master Bascule, Y dont u ½ a holiday? & I agreed & that woz how we decided we otter go 2 c Mr Zoliparia in thi I-ball ov thi gargoyle Rosbrith. I fot Id bettir clear it wif thi relevint oforities furst & hens avoyd any truble (like happind thi lastime) so I went 2 c mentor Scalopin. Certinly yung Bascule, he sez, i do beleave this is a day ov relativly lite dooties 4 u u may take it off. ½ u made yoor mattins calls? O yes, I sed, which woznt stricktly tru, in fact which woz pretti strikly untru, trufe btold, but I cude always do them while we woz travelin.

Old folk are always toppling over - me mam sez.

There are some people," sez I, "that can't hear anything because of the jingle in their pocket.

you are not your pain and this pain is not yours.

FIND THE WOUND. Find the word that describes the wound. Know the wound. Honor the emotion that encompasses the wound. Cleanse the wound. Awaken the light that acknowledges the wound. Heal the wound. Allow the action that absolves the wound. ​- A mantra

Begin to see that everything has an unconventional potential. Begin​​to see that EVERYTHING unconventional is in fact the real YOU, and that by reaching beyond what is considered N O R M A L, you start to see yourself as you really ​​ARE & suddenly you begin to feel        more and MORE ( - inexplicably - )

Il piertg ballontscha. Il piertg cupetga. Il piertg ha survegniu pier. G'emprem ha el buca vuliu, lu ha el buiu giuaden l'entira butteglia. Il piertg stat puspei si e dat lu da leuvi. Ussa ch'il luf ei puspei dentuourn, di il Gieri Blut, fuss ei era aunc grad da trer a nez quei. La coga pon ins gie buca tier, ed era sch'ins pudess tier il hutsch, cun far giu pläzlis exquisit fuss ei matei era buca fatg. Tgi magliass schon da quei, ozendi maglian ei gie quasi mo da quei orda labors. Aber enstagl da far il pur e survegnir dies gob fuss tuttina dad ir suenter al luf. Rimnar ensemen il cac dil luf e far giu en cuppas da conserva, si cun ina biala etichetta cun in stupent maletg e vender car e bein giu els museums. Quei seigi im prinzip gie grad quei che quels chinstlers fetschien. Lu fuss ei fertic cun stivlas neras e praus plein crappa.

Where be I? – Mercy! I came for a pup! That’s where I be. ‘Usband says when we was changin’ shifts walkin’ son last night. ‘Try a pup, Mother’ ‘e sez- ‘We’ve tried rattles an’ bells an’ tyos. Try a live pup to soothe ‘is frettiness.’ So I come. ‘Usband sez, ‘Git a pup same age as son’ – Sooner ‘ave one ‘ouse-broke me’self – wot yer got?” “I have pups three months old” ‘Ezzact same age as son! Bring ‘em along.” She inspected the puppy, running an experienced finger round her gums. “Toothed a’ready! ‘E’ll do.” She tucked the pup into the pram beside the baby who immediately seized the dog’s ear and began to chew. The pup as immediately applied himself greedily to the baby’s bottle and began to suck.

L iving in alignment with your true nature, with an intention to persistently heal throughout your life, is no a means for a cure. We are all, in life-terms, incurable. Death is the only cure, and it always comes too early for us to be able to gain valuable hindsight.

BE UNCONVENTIONAL IN EVERYTHING you do. Unconventional in how you see yourself. Unconventional in what you wear. Unconventional in how you work. Unconventional in how you live, speak & act. Begin to see that everything has an unconventional potential. Begin​​to see that EVERYTHING unconventional is in fact the real YOU, and that by reaching beyond what is considered N O R M A L, you start to see yourself as you really ​​ARE & suddenly you begin to feel        more and MORE ( - inexplicably - ) F R E E. And that perhaps you will unexpectedly walk your own unconventional path right out of your conventional life - and into one that leads you to all kinds of exciting ideas and experiences. And perhaps one day, one of those ideas will just happen to change the world. After all, no ordinary idea has ever made an extraordinary change. It takes the weird, the outcast, the fringe-dwellers, the medial, the radical, the misfit and the intuitive to create a world worth living in.

You do not need to know how to heal yourself – just have the sincere desire to do so.

Don’t worry, Maverick. I got your back.”   “Oh my God. Jack, Top Gun quotes are not cool, OK?”   “Sez you,” Jack shot back as we reached the top of the stairs. “You’re the one who’s going out dressed as an anime character.”   “Touché.

The fabric of me is mother. The weft and warp, woman. Loosely woven, I am free.

Part Two: When St. Kari of the Blade Met Darth Vader, Star Wars Dark Lord of the Sith  (Earlier, the Emperor commanded Lord Vader to make contact . . . “I have felt a non-tremor in the Nether-Force” “I have not, my master.” “Yes, well, that is why I’m ‘the Emp’ and you are not . . . Um, we have a new enemy, the non-entity known as Blade Kári. She’s running around all over the place gunning for that brat kid of yours.” “Hmm. Interesting,” tight-lipped Darth. “Anyway, I–hey, how can all this mish-mash be?” “Search your feelings, Lord Vader” the Emperor solemnized. “If you feel nothing as usual, you know it to be true or false. By now your guess is as good as mine with this Force stuff.” “Damn!–If you say so,” Vader said smacking his hand. “If she could be turned she would make a powerful ally.” “Yesss . . . can it be done? Bring the Valkyrie creature to me. See to it personally, Lord Vader. The more she is loose the more of a train wreck waiting to happen she becomes to us. Besides, it will break up the monotony until Bingo Wednesday night.” “Okay. She will join us or die–again and again and again–until we all get it right. “Now, what about my son?” grumbed Vader deeply. “Why fish for guppies when you can land a Megalodon? Go on. Get out of here. You Annoy me.” “Yes, my Mahhster . . . ”). back to the action . . . “—Oh yeah? Who is he, this Vader person? Someone I should meet?” Kari percolated. Luke mulled. “No. He is evil and very powerful. A ȿith lord.” “A Scythian, eh? Humm.—for a minute there, you had me worried. “Look—there he is!” Luke shouted scrunching down and pulling the girl besides him. Vader stwalked down the landing craft’s platform decked in his usual evil attire looking at the pile of messy clones. “He doesn’t look so tough’st to me. Pretty trippy wardrobe though. Maybe that is why he is evil. Clothes do that, costuming up n’ all. I think I’ll go down and see him.” Kari launched off to meet him. Luke trying to pull her back, she running up to the battle line strewn with dead clones. “Hey Darth’st.” “Did you do all this? Hmmph. The Force is with you, young Blade Kári, but you are not a Valkyrie yet.” “Sez ‘st who? You’st? Do not be so blamed melodramatic. This ’tain’t no movie ʎ’know’st, well leastways, not yet. I shall have you know I am a charter member of your friendly neighborhood Valkyrie club and my dues are so in.” Vader ignited his red lightsaber (he was not one for small talk). “Where can I get one of those, she asked Vader, pointing to his glowing blade of laser evil. Do they come in assorted colors? I want one!” she yelled back at Luke. Vader struck savagely at the girl, she mildly pirouetting on her heels to evade the cut then giggling, diminutively popped him squarely in his breather-chest contraption bugging him. Again, he struck, the blade harmlessly passing through her. “Impressive, most impressive. And you say you can’t get a date?” “Best take it easy Sith-meister. You’re riling me.” Luke’s eyes bulged. He could not believe it, remembering his own stupid head words to Yoda, his spry little green master. Vader paused, breathing heavily as was typical of him like he was a 20-pack a day smoker. “Your destiny lies with me, young Kári. Look here, if you really want one of these red glow in the Nether dark cutters, come with me.” “Honestly?” Luke nodded his head back and forth as if agreeing with himself. Where had he heard that before . . . ? The kid was going to be nothing but trouble from here on out he foresaw. end stay tuned for part iii  

The government has formally approved 577 SEZs*

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This evening Maxine finds herself abroad in this pageant of classic NYC behavior, having made the mistake of offering to spring for a turkey if Elaine will cook it, and compounded it by putting in an advance order at Crumirazzi, a gourmet shop down toward 72nd. She gets there after supper to find the place jammed tighter than a peak-period subway with anxious citizens gathering supplies for their Thanksgiving feasts, and the turkey line folded on itself eight or ten times and moving very, very slowly. People are already screaming at each other, and civility, like everything on the shelves, is in short supply. A serial line jumper has been making his way forward along the turkey line, a large white alpha male whose social skills, if any, are still in beta, intimidating people one by one out of his way. "Excuse me?" Shoving ahead of an elderly lady waiting in line just behind Maxine. "Line jumper here," the lady yells, unslinging her shoulder bag and preparing to deploy it. "You must be from out of town," Maxine addressing the offender, "here in New York, see, the way you're acting? It's considered a felony." "I'm in a hurry, bitch, so back off, unless you want to settle this outside?" "Aw. After all your hard work getting this far? Tell you what, you go out and wait for me, OK? I won't be too long, I promise." Shifting to indignation, "I have a houseful of children to feed—" but he's interrupted by a voice someplace over by the loading dock hollering, "Hey asshole!" and here cannonballing over the heads of the crowd comes a frozen turkey, hits the bothersome yup square in the head, knocking him flat and bouncing off his head into the hands of Maxine, who stands blinking at it like Bette Davis at some baby with whom she must unexpectedly share the frame. She hands the object to the lady behind her. "This is yours, I guess." "What, after it touched him? thanks anyway." "I'll take it," sez the guy behind her. As the line creeps forward, everybody makes sure to step on, not over, the fallen line jumper.