Image created by L.K. Thayer
“Passion is what adds so much value to life. And if you think about the things that you do, there’s so much juice potential for them if you do it.”
“I warrant they would whip me with their fine wits till I were as crest-fallen as a dried pear.”
– Shakespeare, The Merry Wives of Windsor
Photo by L.K. Thayer – Women’s March, Los Angeles – 01.21.17
“Please listen to our full menu as our options have changed: Press 1 for alternative facts / Press 2 for an explanation of emollients vs. the emoluments clause / Press 3 for fashion tips from Kellyanne Conway / Press 4 for denial & anger / Press 5 for bargaining, depression & acceptance / Press 6 for lead us not into temptation of nuclear war / Press 7 if you’d like to purchase a bomb shelter / Press 8 if you’d like to purchase a Gwenyth Paltrow yoni rock to hurl at the White House / Press 9 if you’d like to hear the Trump administration sing Kanye West’s “Wolves” / Or Press 0 if you’d like to speak with Mick Jagger, who can’t always get what you want, but you might find he can sometimes get what you need…”
“Gratitude is the inward feeling of kindness received.
Thankfulness is the natural impulse to express that feeling.
Thanksgiving is the following of that impulse.”
“Telling a story is like trying to eat grapes with a fork.
It’s always trying to get away from you.”
“It’s the action, not the fruit of the action, that’s important. You have to do the right thing. It may not be in your power, may not be in your time, that there’ll be any fruit. But that doesn’t mean you stop doing the right thing. You may never know what results come from your action. But if you do nothing, there will be no result.”
― Mahatma Gandhi
“I think, as an artist, you have to have experienced some deep turmoil,
some kind of pain, because that’s what connects you with the world.
That’s what makes it juicy.”
“Death’s a sad bone; bruised, you’d say,
and yet she waits for me, year after year,
to so delicately undo an old wound,
to empty my breath from its bad prison.
Balanced there, suicides sometimes meet,
raging at the fruit a pumped-up moon,
leaving the bread they mistook for a kiss,
leaving the page of the book carelessly open,
something unsaid, the phone off the hook
and the love whatever it was, an infection.”