Tool Lyrics Quotes

Over thinking, over analyzing separates the body from the mind. Withering my intuition leaving all these opportunities behind. Feed my will to feel this moment urging me to cross the line. Reaching out to embrace the random. Reaching out to embrace whatever may come. I embrace my desire to feel the rhythm, to feel connected enough to step aside and weep like a widow to feel inspired, to fathom the power, to witness the beauty, to bathe in the fountain, to swing on the spiral of our divinity and still be a human. With my feet upon the ground I lose myself between the sounds and open wide to suck it in. I feel it move across my skin. I'm reaching up and reaching out. I'm reaching for the random or what ever will bewilder me. And following our will and wind we may just go where no one's been. We'll ride the spiral to the end and may just go where no one's been. Spiral out. Keep going...

We frequently have a strong connection to poetry and song lyrics and can detect incredibly subtle patterns within both.

Lurking behind this connecting silence is a brooding suspicion over the extent to which the perceptual user-preferences of the human animal limit and distort its experience of reality, and the consequently unreliable nature of much of its thought. Poetry is the means by which we correct the main tool of that thought, language, for its anthropic distortions: it is language's self-corrective function, and everywhere challenges our Adamite inheritance - the catastrophic, fragmenting design of our conceptualizing machinery - through the insistence on a counterbalancing project, that of lyric unity.

We all know what good writing is: It’s the novel we can’t put down, the poem we never forget, the speech that changes the way we look at the world. It’s the article that tells us when, where, and how, the essay that clarifies what was hazy before. Good writing is the memo that gets action, the letter that says what a phone call can’t. It’s the movie that makes us cry, the TV show that makes us laugh, the lyrics to the song we can’t stop singing, the advertisement that makes us buy. Good writing can take form in prose or poetry, fiction or nonfiction. It can be formal or informal, literary or colloquial. The rules and tools for achieving each are different, but one difficult-to-define quality runs through them all: style. “Effectiveness of assertion” was George Bernard Shaw’s definition of style. “Proper words in proper places” was Jonathan Swift’s. You

...our job sometimes is to divorce ourselves from the fact that I've got to constantly be gifting young people with tools and equip them with - I'm imparting lessons upon them. Sometimes it about, look you hate reading, my job is to figure out how to help you not hate reading. The rest of it we can get to, but I got to figure out how to get you engaged. In order to do that sometimes you got to pull back. Right. You got to put a little grease in the pot. Right. So if that means you've got to have them reading rap lyrics in your class, then that's what it is. If that means you got to have them reading comic books or the athletes reading Sports Illustrated and the sports section in ESPN Magazine, then that's what it is. Our job is not just - it's not to just promote literature, which is what we all do. Our job is to promote literacy and there's a difference. Right. There's a difference. Literacy is what will help them way more than what literature will do.

For a while Ignatius was relatively still, reacting to the unfolding plot with only an occasional subdued snort. Then what seemed to be the film’s entire cast was up on the wires. In the foreground, on a trapeze, was the heroine. She swung back and forth to a waltz. She smiled in a huge close-up. Ignatius inspected her teeth for cavities and fillings. She extended one leg. Ignatius rapidly surveyed its contours for structural defects. She began to sing about trying over and over again until you succeeded. Ignatius quivered as the philosophy of the lyrics became clear. He studied her grip on the trapeze in the hope that the camera would record her fatal plunge to the sawdust far below. On the second chorus the entire ensemble joined in the song, smiling and singing lustily about ultimate success while they swung, dangled, flipped, and soared. “Oh, good heavens!” Ignatius shouted, unable to contain himself any longer. Popcorn spilled down his shirt and gathered in the folds of his trousers. “What degenerate produced this abortion?

I closed my eyes again - the sun felt so good against my face - and I continued to eat the ice cream. This time I imagined my white Cadillac was my faithful white horse, Storm. He had a fancy black leather saddle with silver studs and matching reins. I was dressed in all black except for my white hat, which was on at a slight angle, letting it be known I wasn’t an hombre to be trifled with. My silver spurs jingled-jangled the tune from the ice cream truck as I walked because they had been blessed by a Yaqui shaman. The tune cast a spell of fear into the hearts of banditos and love into the hearts of senoritas. A silver plated six-shooter was on my hip in a black tooled holster with notches on its mother of pearl handle from desperados who had to be taken out. The desperados gave me no choice, mostly drug lords from Mexican cartels. The villages along the border celebrated their demise once a year with a big fiesta. Mariachi singers sang my praises with lyrics about the gringo with green eyes who couldn’t be killed.

I asked Dwayne Beemer if he like a lyric I was tooling around with last week—"Your love is like sandpaper in my veins"—and he looked at me like I was the dumbest person in the world. And now I have his judgy face emblazoned in my mind when we play "Sandpaper Blood.

Duane waxed lyrical about “the self-respect which every mechanic should feel, as forming part of that great basis upon which society is erected,” and condemned “idle and imbecile” speculators. As to the machinery wielded by the new capitalist class, he reminded his readers that it, too, was “a production of labor and of mechanical rules of art; and that even in its most perfect state, labor is necessary to its operation, as well to contrive and make, as to keep in order and put it in motion.” And he expressed a clear preference for small-scale manufactures, such as could be performed by just “one, two, or three artists, working with simple tools,” and preferably sold by the maker rather than entrusted to a “third person for sale.” America would be an artisan republic, an advanced economy without hierarchy: “a new thing on earth.