Stone Junction Quotes

Let's get really fucked up and full of sentimental despair and then finally decide life, despite every heartbreak and anguished cry, is worth each pulse and breath.

Why are the ones who are too good to be true always being true to someone else?

The mind is the shadow of the light it seeks.

I don't know a fucking thing. That must mean I'm finally sane and that's an excellent place to start going crazy again.

Let's get really fucked up and full of sentimental despair and then finally decide life, despite every heartbreak and anguished cry, is worth each pulse and breath

most reviews are written by morons about morons. sensibility is at a premium in american culture these days.

Citizens, the nineteenth century is great, but the twentieth century will be happy. Then, there will be nothing more like the history of old, we shall no longer, as to-day, have to fear a conquest, an invasion, a usurpation, a rivalry of nations, arms in hand, an interruption of civilization depending on a marriage of kings, on a birth in hereditary tyrannies, a partition of peoples by a congress, a dismemberment because of the failure of a dynasty, a combat of two religions meeting face to face, like two bucks in the dark, on the bridge of the infinite; we shall no longer have to fear famine, farming out, prostitution arising from distress, misery from the failure of work and the scaffold and the sword, and battles and the ruffianism of chance in the forest of events. One might almost say: There will be no more events. We shall be happy. The human race will accomplish its law, as the terrestrial globe accomplishes its law; harmony will be re-established between the soul and the star; the soul will gravitate around the truth, as the planet around the light. Friends, the present hour in which I am addressing you, is a gloomy hour; but these are terrible purchases of the future. A revolution is a toll. Oh! the human race will be delivered, raised up, consoled! We affirm it on this barrier. Whence should proceed that cry of love, if not from the heights of sacrifice? Oh my brothers, this is the point of junction, of those who think and of those who suffer; this barricade is not made of paving-stones, nor of joists, nor of bits of iron; it is made of two heaps, a heap of ideas, and a heap of woes. Here misery meets the ideal. The day embraces the night, and says to it: 'I am about to die, and thou shalt be born again with me.' From the embrace of all desolations faith leaps forth. Sufferings bring hither their agony and ideas their immortality. This agony and this immortality are about to join and constitute our death. Brothers, he who dies here dies in the radiance of the future, and we are entering a tomb all flooded with the dawn.

Ölümü kaçıracak ve karşılığında fidye olarak zaman isteyecekti." Çev. Ayşe Ünal

a national government is bad enough, but this administration is the largest collection of scoundrels and morons in recent memory.

I wanted someone to hold me close so I slide across and snuggled in tight and said, 'Hold me.' He did, and it was tender and truly sweet, but without a trace of that wild carnal edge you would have to cross if you want to get so close together you can't tell each other apart. I pushed it. I said, 'I want to get closer. I want you to love who I am.' Love doesn't do much for the powers of explanation, but since Love has never asked for one itself, that seems fair enough.

Where would the shout of love begin, if not from the summit of sacrifice? Oh my brothers, this is the junction between those who think and those who suffer; this barricade is made neither of paving stones, nor of timbers, nor of iron; it is made of two mounds, a mound of ideas and a mound of sorrows. Here misery encounters the ideal. Here day embraces night, and says: I will die with you and you will be born again with me. From the heavy embrace of all desolations springs faith. Sufferings bring their agony here, and ideas their immortality. This agony and immortality will mingle and make up our death. Brothers, whoever dies here dies in the radiance of the future, and we are entering a grave illuminated by the dawn.

These are some mighty men about to hit the stage," an unseen announcer screamed through the PA system. "With an average height of six-foot-four, a massive weight of three hundred thirty pounds - all of it rock-solid muscle - they are nationally ranked power lifters, some of whom bench-press over six hundred pounds! And they're not here to brag on their muscles, but to brag on Jesus." The eight members of the Power Team ran up to the stage on thunderous feet, wearing red, black, and blue warm-up suits, weight belts, and boxing shoes. To a man, they were as big as a semitrailer truck. They pumped their fists in the air and stood before us bouncing lightly on the balls of their feet, ready to kick some religious butt. "Fasten your seat belts. If God is for you, who can be against you?" "Woo! Woo! Woo!" the audience screamed, instantly ready to rock and roll. We were less than an hour into the first night of a six-night revival, and already it seemed that Sin was going down in a terminal headlock, and Grand Junction would never be the same.... I had heard about the Power Team not from Christian friends, but from a succession of potheads - quintessential late-night cable TV channel surfers. To the stoned, there is nothing more entertaining than the sudden, near hallucinatory vision of this troupe of power-lifting missionaries led by former Oral Roberts University football star John Jacobs.... [My nephew] bought a comic book in which John Jacobs and the Power Team defeat a lisping South American drug lord. From that and an orientation video, we learned that the Team conducts seventy crusades each year, saves close to a million souls here and abroad - notably in Russia - and consists of "world-class athletes who inspire people to follow Christ - and to move away from drugs, alcohol, and suicide." (At the same time, we were pressured not to let our long-distance dollars go to support "nudity, profanity, or the Gay Games." We could avoid this by signing up with Lifeline, a Christian long-distance provider.)" People Who Sweat: Ordinary People, Extraordinary Pursuits, pp. 126-8.

On a walk last year, I turned a corner to find a large puddle reverberating with ripples. It was a large, typical Turn puddle, created at a dark mud junction by a farmer’s tractor, and it would not normally have held my attention for long, but the ripples caught my eye. There was a calm center to the puddle, surrounded by a short series of ripples marching toward the puddle’s edge. It was a very calm day, so I knew that I could discount the wind, and the ripple pattern was wrong anyway. Besides, I had a more likely suspect in mind. I dropped back, quietly concealing myself in the undergrowth in the direction I had come from and stayed perfectly still as I studied the puddle and listened. Sure enough, a minute later the culprit returned, and I spent a wonderful couple of minutes watching a nuthatch take his bath. The ripples in a puddle will reveal things, just as the ripples in a pond and waves in the ocean will. Drop a stone in a puddle and you will be able to see the ripples charge away from the disturbance. If the puddle is big enough, then you will notice the center return to calm, before the ripples rebound from the edges and the reflected ripples return, sometimes creating diamond patterns and crests as these tiny waves crash back into each other. The brief calm in the center is the clue that whatever was disturbing the puddle is doing it no longer, the prettiest case being a bird or insect taking off.

beyond the confluence lies the wilderness of the Needles country, known to only a few cowboys and uranium prospectors; on the west side of the junction is another labyrinth of canyons, pinnacles and fins of naked stone, known to even fewer, closer than anything else in the forty-eight United States to being genuine terra incognita—The Maze.

Drills and explosives did what Willie believed all technologies did: They killed feeling. By assassinating time and space under the guise of saving them, they keep people out of touch when the better state of being, according to Willie and others, is in touch. In his more delirious screeds, Willie claimed that industrialization was a Christian plot to destroy the pagan reflex between sensation and emotion.

It was the sunset when he put his had on my shoulders. Blue-red skies, so blue as the farewell might be, so red as the life will be. - How long? - For them? Maybe forever, maybe one day longer... - My Jinn is sad today and I'm not sure, why? - Want to see them back? - It was just my faith in impossibility. - Want to give them a few seconds more? - The stone is the stone, Eve. The not-alive is... - We can try, Jinnie, why not? You tried. - Tears warmed my face. What the day is today? - Do you believe in magic, Eve? When were you crying last time? Honestly, I don't remember. What can it change, my tears? Terracotta cheeks, porcelain temples, stony trap, the eternity. - Are you still afraid of the sarcophagus? - Just my thought, his crazy and psychedelic fear, conjecture. Do the Genies have a kind of trauma?? - We do have the hearts. Is it making you better? - I hear his question, I can't find his mind, the one I feel, skies in fire and howling wind. -It is the Time, Eve, that wind, it is the breeze, uncommonly, experienced. Nothing cannot be back, we have to pay for this, from us, our particles, all who we are... The man on crossing, perception of junction, step forward step back, I saw him before. Before of what? Where is he going now? - That moment when can go to nowhere, Eve. How many times were you dying? Honestly, I don't remember, what can it change, my death? Terracotta palms, porcelain thumbs, stony breath after all. - Jinnie, what day is today? You are talking about the Death, yes? - The warm touch, route, depth. - Why here is so cold? - Do you know what was before them, Eve? Do you want to see? - No!!! - My feeling was No, my blood said Back, my senses Stroke pushing me back. Do not be imprisoned, Do not let Them to imprison you. - You and Us... - His whisper, his step, gates slam shut. WTF... Terracotta-Stony gates. Nothing more, nothing less, nothingness. I am smashed. With them... With??? Oh no, whatever, not they!!! Buried alive. Do not move, do not turn back, this is a delusion, you do not hear them, you are only the... Author??? - RED! - Shreds of his voice. - Blue and Red. - What is she doing here??? - Rustle - Is she our Salvation??? They stepped, closer, they are the coldest I ever met. - Hey, I am not him!!! - I was shouting. - Do not step on me!!! There was something crushing under my feet. Sounds like... Ice? Not possible. Or yes, it is the frozen stone, millions of them, buttered Time. - Go! - This is my Jinn - Get out from ice!!! Go where? I am stuck, for eternity. With them and their horses. What the Jinn said? 'Ride them'. It was about the Dragons. Sorry, this is what I said! Was it? Upper, North, South. Go upper. Before they will arise... - The woman is a woman is a woman... - Sometimes the thoughts are touching, the desires surrounding.

When a traveller in north central Massachusetts takes the wrong fork at the junction of the Aylesbury pike just beyond Dean’s Corners he comes upon a lonely and curious country. The ground gets higher, and the brier-bordered stone walls press closer and closer against the ruts of the dusty, curving road. The trees of the frequent forest belts seem too large, and the wild weeds, brambles, and grasses attain a luxuriance not often found in settled regions. At the same time the planted fields appear singularly few and barren; while the sparsely scattered houses wear a surprisingly uniform aspect of age, squalor, and dilapidation. Without knowing why, one hesitates to ask directions from the gnarled, solitary figures spied now and then on crumbling doorsteps or on the sloping, rock-strown meadows. Those figures are so silent

Just as the terror is experienced as falling, the ecstasy is experienced as rising, soaring—but unchecked, it’s the same as falling. So watch for that moment when clarity swerves toward the ecstatic. Catch yourself and return as soon as possible. I mean immediately. The further you soar, the further you fall.

The mind is a glass floor. The mind is the spirit’s tear. The mind is our prior and subsequent ghost. The mind is the Bullion Express and the blood on the tracks. The mind is a stone door. The silver on the backs of mirrors. The wave that defines the coast. It’s what the drunk grave robbers couldn’t stuff in their sacks. The mind is the sum of all and more. The spasm between one and zero in the Calendar of Black-Hole Years. The contract between the lash and the whipping post. A quilt of dreams stitched with facts. A meaningless argument among whores. Rain that keeps falling when the sky clears. A masquerade party, guest and host. A candlelit landscape of puddled wax. The mind is what thought is for. The parking lot at the Mall of Fears. The fire-pit for the piggy roast. What the soul surrendered and won’t take back. The mind is neither either nor or. The real center of an empty sphere.

I'm working on nerve alone now, out on the edges, looking for the centre

Enter your wounds. Heal. Escape. And when you get loose, come join me. I'll meet you at Jim Bridger's grave as soon as you get there. We'll make music we can't hear alone, celebrate beauty yet to be born, take the devil by the horns and wrestle him to the ground. We'll shoot for the stars, sweetheart. We'll waltz in the moonlit cemetery like fallen Gods, stand revealed, naked as air, and kiss each other's scars. Till then, my invisible friend, this is the Dream Joker bidding you his tenderest toodeloo. Dream on." Denis Joyner, AMO Mobile Radio DJ