Adjacent Quotes

Authors: A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z
Categories: A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z
death-life-were-just-adjacent-verandas-salman-rushdie
they-say-that-home-is-where-heart-is-i-think-it-is-where-house-is-adjacent-buildings-emily-dickinson
the-doors-heaven-hell-are-adjacent-identical-nikos-kazantzakis
i-like-getting-massages-regularly-so-much-that-i-built-massage-room-adjacent-to-my-office
being-actor-adjacent-to-media-industry-i-pay-attention-to-that-landscape
if-we-didnt-have-genetic-mutations-we-wouldnt-have-us-you-need-error-to-open-door-to-adjacent-possible
naps-are-essential-to-my-process-not-dreams-but-that-state-adjacent-to-sleep-mind-on-waking-william-gibson
we-lived-in-provincial-town-ramat-gan-where-i-spent-most-my-youth-adjacent-to-chess-board
the-adjacent-shores-resounded-with-alternate-shouts-sons-liberty-groans-their-parting-spirits-william-apess
the-countries-american-continent-adjacent-islands-are-for-united-states-natural-marts-supply-demand-chester-a-arthur
we-have-therefore-directed-irish-army-authorities-to-have-field-hospitals-established-in-county-donegal-adjacent-to-derry-at-other-points-along-border-where-they-may-be-necessary
eventually-i-realised-there-must-be-way-by-playing-with-molecules-trying-to-turn-molecules-on-off-allows-you-to-see-adjacent-things-you-couldnt-see-before
noise-is-number-one-problem-in-modern-offices-a-big-part-addressing-this-issue-is-making-sure-unwanted-sound-from-adjacent-spaces-doesnt-intrude-interfere
i-have-sort-waking-nightmare-to-get-this-thing-just-about-completed-last-day-to-discover-one-little-part-that-doesnt-quite-fit-with-adjacent-part-bill-reid
on-earth-are-adjacent-terrains-gardens-vines-crops-datepalms-from-same-root-from-distinct-roots-irrigated-with-same-water-we-make-some-taste-better-than-others-in-that-are-proofs
daily-hope-is-vital-since-winter-quarters-our-lives-are-not-immediately-adjacent-to-our-promised-land-either-an-arduous-trek-still-awaits-but-hope-neal-a-maxwell
the-concept-disruption-is-about-competitive-response-it-is-not-theory-growth-its-adjacent-to-growth-but-its-not-about-growth
we-have-number-customers-who-are-enamored-our-convention-center-they-love-pittsburgh-they-want-to-come-here-but-they-wont-until-there-is-larger-concentration-hotel-rooms-adjacent
if-i-have-nearbeer-im-near-beer-and-if-im-near-beer-im-close-to-tequila-and-if-im-close-to-tequila-im-adjacent-to-cocaine-craig-ferguson
When I wasn't in the barn garden, helping out, sorting seeds or checking hoses I'd spend time alone, usually in the bathroom adjacent to Joel's room, staring into the shattered mirror as my hand gently caressed my baby bump. More often than not I would cry. Not because my pregnancy upset me, or that my hormones were getting the better of me, but because I missed Joel, my baby's father. That the baby would grow up without a dad made me anxious. Then again, if he had survived, what irreparable damage would he have suffered and how would his pain translate to his child? Jesus, I was studying myself in the very mirror he'd smashed the night he chose to take his own life. The bump had grown slowly in the last couple of months. With these limited resources, I didn't have the privilege of eating whatever I craved. Had that been the case, I was sure I would have been bigger by now. Still, I tried to eat as well and as often as I could and the size of my belly had proven that my attempts at proper nutrition were at least growing something in there. Nothing made me happier than feeling my baby move. It was a constant source of relief for me. In our present circumstances, with no vitamins and barely any meat products save the recent stash of jerky Earl had found in an abandoned trailer, my diet consisted of berries, lettuce, and canned beans for the most part. Feeling the baby move inside me was an experience I often enjoyed alone. I would think of Joel then as well. Imagining his hand on my belly, with mine guiding his to the kicks and punches.

Michael Poeltl
when-i-wasnt-in-barn-garden-helping-out-sorting-seeds-checking-hoses-id-spend-time-alone-usually-in-bathroom-adjacent-to-joels-room-staring-into-shattered-mirror-as-my-hand-gentl
The moment Jace Calder saw his sister's face, he feared the worst. His heart sank. Emily, his troubled little sister, had been doing so well since she'd gotten the job at the Sarah Hamilton Foundation in Big Timber, Montana. "What's wrong?" he asked as he removed his Stetson, pulled up a chair at the Big Timber Java coffee shop and sat down across from her. Tossing his hat on the seat of an adjacent chair, he braced himself for bad news. Emily blinked her big blue eyes. Even though she was closing in on twenty-five, he often caught glimpses of the girl she'd been. Her pixie cut, once a dark brown like his own hair, was dyed black. From thirteen on, she'd been piercing anything she could. At sixteen she'd begun getting tattoos and drinking. It wasn't until she'd turned seventeen that she'd run away, taken up with a thirty-year-old biker drug-dealer thief and ended up in jail for the first time. But while Emily still had the tattoos and the piercings, she'd changed after the birth of her daughter, and after snagging this job with Bo Hamilton. "What's wrong is Bo, " his sister said. Bo had insisted her employees at the foundation call her by her first name. "Pretty cool for a boss, huh?" his sister had said at the time. He'd been surprised. That didn't sound like the woman he knew. But who knew what was in Bo's head lately. Four months ago her mother, Sarah, who everyone believed dead the past twenty-two years, had suddenly shown up out of nowhere. According to what he'd read in the papers, Sarah had no memory of the past twenty-two years. He'd been worried it would hurt the foundation named for her. Not to mention what a shock it must have been for Bo. Emily leaned toward him and whispered, "Bo's... She's gone.

B.J. Daniels
the-moment-jace-calder-saw-his-sisters-face-he-feared-worst-his-heart-sank-emily-his-troubled-little-sister-had-been-doing-well-since-shed-gotten-job-at-sarah-hamilton-foundation
Ultimately, the roast turkey must be regarded as a monument to Boomer's love. Look at it now, plump and glossy, floating across Idaho as if it were a mammoth, mutated seed pod. Hear how it backfires as it passes the silver mines, perhaps in tribute to the origin of the knives and forks of splendid sterling that a roast turkey and a roast turkey alone possesses the charisma to draw forth into festivity from dark cupboards. See how it glides through the potato fields, familiarly at home among potatoes but with an air of expectation, as if waiting for the flood of gravy. The roast turkey carries with it, in its chubby hold, a sizable portion of our primitive and pagan luggage. Primitive and pagan? Us? We of the laser, we of the microchip, we of the Union Theological Seminary and Time magazine? Of course. At least twice a year, do not millions upon millions of us cybernetic Christians and fax machine Jews participate in a ritual, a highly stylized ceremony that takes place around a large dead bird? And is not this animal sacrificed, as in days of yore, to catch the attention of a divine spirit, to show gratitude for blessings bestowed, and to petition for blessings coveted? The turkey, slain, slowly cooked over our gas or electric fires, is the central figure at our holy feast. It is the totem animal that brings our tribe together. And because it is an awkward, intractable creature, the serving of it establishes and reinforces the tribal hierarchy. There are but two legs, two wings, a certain amount of white meat, a given quantity of dark. Who gets which piece; who, in fact, slices the bird and distributes its limbs and organs, underscores quite emphatically the rank of each member in the gathering. Consider that the legs of this bird are called 'drumsticks, ' after the ritual objects employed to extract the music from the most aboriginal and sacred of instruments. Our ancestors, kept their drums in public, but the sticks, being more actively magical, usually were stored in places known only to the shaman, the medicine man, the high priest, of the Wise Old Woman. The wing of the fowl gives symbolic flight to the soul, but with the drumstick is evoked the best of the pulse of the heart of the universe. Few of us nowadays participate in the actual hunting and killing of the turkey, but almost all of us watch, frequently with deep emotion, the reenactment of those events. We watch it on TV sets immediately before the communal meal. For what are footballs if not metaphorical turkeys, flying up and down a meadow? And what is a touchdown if not a kill, achieved by one or the other of two opposing tribes? To our applause, great young hungers from Alabama or Notre Dame slay the bird. Then, the Wise Old Woman, in the guise of Grandma, calls us to the table, where we, pretending to be no longer primitive, systematically rip the bird asunder. Was Boomer Petaway aware of the totemic implications when, to impress his beloved, he fabricated an outsize Thanksgiving centerpiece? No, not consciously. If and when the last veil dropped, he might comprehend what he had wrought. For the present, however, he was as ignorant as Can o' Beans, Spoon, and Dirty Sock were, before Painted Stick and Conch Shell drew their attention to similar affairs. Nevertheless, it was Boomer who piloted the gobble-stilled butterball across Idaho, who negotiated it through the natural carving knives of the Sawtooth Mountains, who once or twice parked it in wilderness rest stops, causing adjacent flora to assume the appearance of parsley.

Tom Robbins
ultimately-roast-turkey-must-be-regarded-as-monument-to-boomers-love-look-at-it-now-plump-glossy-floating-across-idaho-as-if-it-were-mammoth-mutated-seed-pod-hear-how-it-backfire
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