Transformers Vortex Quotes

Cinema – all art really – has great power. Power to illuminate. Power to transform. For those of us who experience film as literature, classic movies comprised an introductory education in the genre. As kids, many of us went searching through library shelves for obscure source novels after seeing some old movie or other. It was the start of many an adventure.

No one wants to occupy a black hole of sadness and despair or slip on the tight rope that separates sanity from insanity, and reside in a vortex devoid of reality. I entered the world as a freeman and desire to escape a state of existential vertigo. I yearn to discover a synthesizing spirit of my being and hold my head high, free of doubt, and devoid of fear. I wish to foment the cerebral energy to stave off premature destruction and forevermore blunt an intolerable state of anguish.

The best way to explain in modern terms what a deity is, is to understand deity as a unique vortex of energy. Sometimes that energy vortex takes recognizable anthropomorphic form (for instance, in meditation visions). Sometimes that energy is felt through the sound vibrations, called mantra, or through the geometric pictures, called yantras, that map the way that energy looks in “blueprint” form.

Beaner Weens, head cook at the Vicar’s Knickers, verbal dueling partner of Ann Tenna, and infamous character known for collecting bottles, cans, and golf balls while disguised as a moose, had by some unknown manner transformed himself into a popular guest on various paranormal podcasts. It earned him dozens of dollars.

The author explores the contours of a restless mind racked with fear and doubt and questions the origins of his personal disenchantment and cynical bitterness. Do other people share similar feelings of disquiet and despair, and how does a person escape a vortex of suffering? Perchance he can marshal human beings’ innate gifts of memory, language, and consciousness to transform his vile existence. Perhaps by studiously examining the self and seeking to unite all disparate parts of a fragmented psyche, he will become a thoughtful, considerate, and affectionate man who lives joyfully without pangs of pain, shame, and misgivings. The goal of this vision quest is to attain personal harmony with the world and enjoy an admirable state of attentive mindfulness after investigating and expressing all that is sayable pertaining the meaning of existence and the unique features of being human. The author aspires to discard frivolous attachments, pierce mental delusions, and attain a peaceful state of serenity by accepting reality and appreciating the incomparable beauty of this magnificent world and the little pleasures that each unfolding day affords. Perhaps writing of his struggles to transcend his own pain and develop the wisdom and serenity of the mind that comes from living an examined life might even provide a template for other people explore their own life story.

She melted the butter in the pan. She warmed the egg yolks by immersing them in a bowl of hot water and mixing them with vinegar, then pouring in the shining golden butter little by little. She moved the whisk ceaselessly, making the contents of the bowl whirl round and round. Having observed Chizu's troubles up close, and learned how to avoid them, she succeeded in producing the fine egg-colored foam relatively quickly. Her whole hand, from the wrist down, was dancing on a waltz. The tigers in the book, whose desires had kept them spinning round and round until they transformed into butter, had ended up in the stomachs of Little Babaji's family. Even after their deaths, Kajii's victims continued to be exposed to and consumed by the curious gaze of the general public. Rika had stopped believing that any blame lay with the victims themselves. Being sucked into the vortex of Kajii's ominous power, like she herself had been, was something that could happen to anybody. Thinking this, she went on single-mindedly whisking the butter. Through her adventures with the quatre-quarts on Valentine's Day, she'd learned that waiting on the far side of all of this seemingly endless whisking was not stasis or evaporation, but emulsification. If she couldn't tear her eyes away from Kajii, if she couldn't stop herself from spinning round and round, then maybe all that was left to do was to grip on to Kajii with all her might, so as to ensure she wasn't shaken off. 'Done!' Rika said to herself and lifted up the whisk. The sauce of warm, bright yellow that came dripping off the whisk was smooth as cashmere.

Whether we are trying to understand how consciousness can sleep, how it can be inspired by a past which it has apparently lost, or finally how it can open up again to that past, it is possible to speak of passivity only on the condition that "to be conscious" does not mean "to give a meaning" which one projects onto an ungraspable abject of knowledge, but to realize a certain distance, a certain variation in a field of existence already instituted, which is always behind us and whose weight, like that of an object in flight, only intervenes in the actions by which we transform it. For man, to live is not simply to be constantly conferring meaning upon things but to continue a vortex of experience which was set up at our birth, at the point of contact between the "outside" and he who is called to live it.

Luo Ji spent the night in a fevered torpor, haunted endlessly by restless dreams in which the stars in the night sky swirled and danced like grains of sand on the skin of a drum. He was even aware of the gravitational interaction between these stars: It wasn’t three-body motion, but the 200-billion-body motion of all of the stars in the galaxy! Then the swirling stars clustered into an enormous vortex, and in that mad spiral the vortex transformed again into a giant serpent formed from the congealed silver of every star, which drilled into his brain with a roar.… At around four in the morning, Zhang Xiang was awakened by his phone. It was a call from the Planetary Defense Council Security Department leadership who, in severe tones, demanded that he report immediately on Luo Ji’s condition, and ordered the base to be put under a state of emergency. A team of experts was on its way over. As soon as he hung up the phone, it rang again, this time with a call from the doctor in the tenth basement, who reported that the patient’s condition had sharply deteriorated and he was now in a state of shock. Zhang Xiang descended the elevator at once, and the panicked doctor and nurse informed him that Luo Ji had begun spitting up blood in the middle of the

Ishmael’s transformation echoes what was happening to the northern portion of the United States when Melville was working on Moby-Dick. During the fall of 1850 and the winter of 1851, Boston became the epicenter of outrage over the Fugitive Slave Law, and Melville’s father-in-law, Judge Lemuel Shaw, was the reluctant focal point. Although Shaw hated slavery, he also loved his country and its laws, which it was his duty to uphold. So it was Shaw who ordered that a slave who’d made his way to Boston be turned over to his Southern captors. Riots and general bedlam erupted, with Shaw being hanged in effigy after the decision. New England gentlemen who had once viewed the South from the safety of their own mastheads had finally been drawn into slavery’s pernicious vortex. What to do? Nothing, of course. As Starbuck discovers, simply being a good guy with a positive worldview is not enough to stop a force of nature like Ahab, who feeds on the fears and hatreds in us all. “My soul is more than matched,” Starbuck laments, “she’s overmanned; and by a madman!” Just like Starbuck, America’s leaders in the 1850s looked at one another with vacant, deer-in-the-headlights stares as the United States, a great and noble country crippled by a lie, slowly but inevitably sailed toward its cataclysmic encounter with the source of its discontents.

And yet even that awful memory, which felt like it would crush my heart if only I would let it, the memory of that night, changed color day by day, so that when it snuck up on me, it took less and less time for my heart to settle down, until I finally felt the vortex in my heart growing smaller. It was bizarre to witness such vividly painful emotions, profound enough it felt like I could touch them, transform so completely.

whatever the situation is, good or bad, it’s gonna pass. The only thing that remains is the moment. It’s the transformational vortex to the infinite.

Why was it so scary to ask themselves one simple question: Why am I doing what I’m doing? Part of me understood the vortex, of course. Part of me understood that they couldn’t stop, particularly if they’d enjoyed success, because if they did stop, they would stop being relevant. I understood. Completely.

In Notes, Jefferson condemned manufacturing states as the basest of societies for the greatest number of citizens. Jefferson believed that an inevitable “Corruption of morals” occurred in a manufacturing state. Manufacturers were ensnared in the demeaning vortex of a never-slackening chase after wealth. Their unquenchable thirst for money, and their dependence on the vagaries of the marketplace, drove them inescapably to vice and venality. Moreover, all who were dependent on the success of the manufacturers—merchants, shopkeepers, tradesmen, laborers—were compromised and shaped into “fit tools for the designs of ambition.” Cities would inevitably become manufacturing centers, he said, and just as assuredly most urban dwellers would be fated to live in squalid surroundings. He painted a stark picture: “great cities add just so much to the support of pure government, as sores do to the strength of the human body.” In manufacturing societies, only those at the top of the economic structure were truly independent and more or less in control of their destiny. The political system likely to evolve in such societies would be little different from those in monarchical kingdoms. In both, a “heavy-handed” executive would manage affairs on behalf of the oligarchy. The ruling elite would harbor an “unfeeling” fear and scorn for the great mass of the citizenry, “rendered desperate by poverty and wretchedness.” The lifeblood of the realm would be the generation of fortunes for those at the top. Among other things, this dynamic in the course of time would transform the polity into a military state. As in ancient Rome, when Caesar said, “With money we will get men … and with men we shall get money,” the manufacturing state would grow ever more pugnacious and expansive. No barriers to the pursuit of riches—most assuredly not the welfare and happiness of the great preponderance of the people—could be tolerated.

Whether it is a matter of understanding how consciousness can sleep, how it can be inspired by a past which apparently eludes it, or, finally, how access to that past is reopened, passivity is possible only on the condition that "to be conscious" is not "to donate a sense," which one holds in one's possession in a material of ungraspable knowledge. Rather, to be conscious is to realize a certain divergence, a certain variation in an already instituted existential field, which is always behind us and whose weight, like that of a flywheel, intervenes up into the actions by which we transform it. To live, for humans, is not merely to impose significations perpetually, but to continue a vortex of experience which is formed, with our birth, at the point of contact between the "outside" and the one who is called to live it.