Sentences with phrase «maybe out of memory»

Is there anything wrong with immortalizing only the bright spots, permitting the darker stuff to fade out of view — and maybe out of memory?

Not exact matches

Maybe we find the words out there, in the marketplace, a coffee shop, a stadium, where people aren't dressed for church and can speak their own true words (if we'll listen) about the flesh, their fears, the blessing and curse of family, the craziness, not to mention dreams, fantasies, habits and memories.

well, I sometimes bring some of those ways of thinking and operating to this blog... I do nt» mean to, it is almost like muscle memory... someone throws out a straw man arguement or circular logic, or some other logical fallacy, and well... sometimes I jump at it the way I would over at other blogs without maybe taking a moment to re-adjust my attitude.

Do you believe, this is what I believe and I could be wrong and you have more experience in this than I do so I'm testing my hypothesis with an expert, that as you add these toxins, like if you were to say on an average day someone with no toxins doesn't ever drop a word for their memory but on a day or a week or when their mercury levels hit one out of 10, maybe they drop one word today, and when they're five out of 10, they drop four words a day, there's a gradual decline in cognitive performance or physical performance before we hit the «Oh my god I feel crappy all the time, I have chronic fatigue, fibromyalgia, and I'm a zombie?»

I love making things out of other things / recycling / reusing, and this is such a quick and satisfying way to keep wearing a favorite sweater that's wearing out, or maybe one that has fond memories that I accidentally shrank.

Alma Martin once told my mother a story that Matisse had Madame Cézanne in mind when he painted his own wife... and she was beginning to think that if it was good enough for Matisse to strip Madame Cézanne into his wife's painting then maybe, just maybe, she would pose nude for Alma in order to help him flesh out his memory of his lost wife.

I'd highly recommend checking this out — if you haven't yet read Karen Memory, maybe start with that because the longer introduction to Karen and Priya is a good background and that book's just a joy of an adventure too — but if you just want to try a quick steampunk love story between two women, this is a great one to go with.

Especially when you look at the historical performance of managed funds, you see that the majority of them (I don't have my copy of ARWDWS right now, so I'm relying on memory here) don't beat the market at all (and thus produce funds that under - perform the market by several percent after fees are taken out), and very few (maybe 5 - 10 %) manage to beat the market enough to make up for their fees.

, you are lying on the floor of your place looking up, a small draft runs through the room, between the door and the window, and all things seem perfectly still, wind only disturbs concrete in imperceptible ways, or it may take millions of years to be noticed and, as the air runs through the space, all your plants move and all is animated and all is alive somehow, and here are the thoughts of all men in all ages and lands, they are not original with me, and that wind upon your plants is the common air that bathes the globe, and we have no ambitions of universalism, and I'm glad we don't, but the particles of air bring traces of pollen and are charged with electricity, desert sand, maybe sea water, and these particles were somewhere else before they were dragged here, and their route will not end by the door of this house, and if we tell each other stories, one can imagine that they might have been bathed by this same air, regrouped and recombined, recharged as a vehicle for sound, swirling as it moves, bringing the sound of a drum, like that Kabuki story where a fox recognizes the voice of its parents as a girl plays a drum made out of their skin, or any other event, and yet I always felt your work never tells stories, I tend to think that narrative implies a past tense, even if that past was just five seconds ago, one second ago was already the past, and human memory is irrelevant in geological time, plants and fish know not what tomorrow will bring, neither rocks nor metal do, but we all live here now, and we all need visions and we all need dreams, and as long as your metal sculptures vibrate they are always in the Present, and their past is a material truth alien to narrative, but well, maybe narrative does not imply a past tense at all and they are writing their own story while they gently move and breathe, and maybe nothing was really still before the wind came in, passing through the window as if through an irrational portal to make those plants dance, but everything was already moving and breathing in near complete silence, and if you're focused enough you can feel the pulse of a concrete wall and you can feel the tectonic movements of the earth, and you can hear the magma flowing under our feet and our bones crackling like a wild fire, and you can see the light of fireflies reflected in polished metal, and there is nothing magical about that, it is just the way things are, and sometimes we have to raise our voice because the music is too loud and let your clothes move to a powerful bass, sound waves and bright lights, powerful like the sun, blinding us if we stare for too long, but isn't it the biggest sign of love, like singing to a corn field, and all acts of kindness that are not pitiful nor utilitarian, that are truly horizontal as everything around us is impregnated with the deadliest violence, vertical and systemic, poisonous, and sometimes you just want to feel the sun burning your skin and look for life in all things declared dead, a kind of vitality that operates like corrosion, strong as the wind near the sea, transforming all things,

It made for a memorable trip — although maybe some of those memories I could have done with out — ha!