metaphor

Tristan was the soundtrack of my summer. The beat I walked to. The melody I breathed in and out. The lyrics I lived by.

It was long past midnight. Laura's music played on. It was composed in the language of stars, tinkling in a crystal pool suspended from constellations. She used chimes now and then, the chimes that characterized every patio in Arizona, the piano, the trees combed by wind. A prelude to a storm. It was like discovering the secret room in a dream of your house that holds all the magic. It was music I wished I lived inside. Around us, cactus, hills filled with jumping cholla, the heat of August like another animal heaving over us.

The verse is supposed to get you hard so the chorus can suck you off.

If Music is a Place -- then Jazz is the City, Folk is the Wilderness, Rock is the Road, Classical is a Temple.

He realized that when he had been afraid to change he had been holding on to the illusion of Old Cheese that was no longer there

If a car can represent something, this one represents contradiction. For most of his life, my dad has been able to have any woman he wants. In response, he__ gone through as many as possible, betraying each for someone younger and more absurd. Conversely, for most of his life he__ been able to have any car he wants, too. In response, he__ remained married to this, a 1982 Porsche with a tricky clutch.

Stretched and skewedTap of the 8-ball and the cueScratches fall throughThey are the scars of you

She wore her pain like lingerie, only who loved her enough, got to see it.

Denying emotion is not avoiding the high curbs, it's never taking your car out of the garage. It's safe in there, but you'll never go anywhere.

Suffering is the fuel in the engine of civilization."-Vergere

Memories are bullets. Some whiz by and only spook you. Others tear you open and leave you in pieces.

In short, philosophical theories are largely the product of the hidden hand of the cognitive unconscious.

As dawn leaks into the sky it edits out the stars like excess punctuation marks, deleting asterisks and periods, commas, and semi-colons, leaving only unhinged thoughts rotating and pivoting, and unsecured words.

The facts of nature are what they are, but we can only view them through the spectacles of our mind. Our mind works largely by metaphor and comparison, not always (or often) by relentless logic. When we are caught in conceptual traps, the best exit is often a change in metaphor _ not because the new guideline will be truer to nature (for neither the old nor the new metaphor lies __ut there_ in the woods), but because we need a shift to more fruitful perspectives, and metaphor is often the best agent of conceptual transition.

After that hard winter, one could not get enough of the nimble air. Every morning I wakened with a fresh consciousness that winter was over. There were none of the signs of spring for which I used to watch in Virginia, no budding woods or blooming gardens. There was only__pring itself; the throb of it, the light restlessness, the vital essence of it everywhere: in the sky, in the swift clouds, in the pale sunshine, and in the warm, high wind__ising suddenly, sinking suddenly, impulsive and playful like a big puppy that pawed you and then lay down to be petted. If I had been tossed down blindfold on that red prairie, I should have known that it was spring.

For it is better to drink a wholesome draught of truth from the humble vessel, than poison mixed with honey from a golden goblet.

There is the body of history ever atop of us, and the body of memory rustling within us. Between the two, we are crushed.

I have just read a long novel by Henry James. Much of it made me think of the priest condemned for a long space to confess nuns.