cryptocine

“I do not know myself sometimes, or how to measure and name and count out the grains that make me what I am.”
― Virginia Woolf, The Waves

“...you can jail revolutionaries, but you can’t jail the revolution.

You might run a liberator like Eldridge Cleaver out of the country, but you can’t run liberation out of the country.

You might murder a freedom fighter like Bobby Hutton, but you can’t murder freedom fighting.

And if you do, you’ll come up with answers that don’t answer,
explanations that don’t explain,
you’ll come up with conclusions that don’t conclude

And you’ll come up with people that you thought should be acting like pigs that’s acting like people and instead moving on pigs.”
― Fred Hampton

“when life is over, death removes all the clothing that differentiated them,”
― Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra, Don Quixote

“Each night the wilderness, the meadows, the far country flowed down-creek through ravine and welled up in town with a smell of grass and water, and the town was disinhabited and dead and gone back to earth. And each morning a little more of the ravine edged up into town, threatening to swamp garages like leaking rowboats, devour ancient cars which had been left to the flaking mercies of rain and therefore rust.

“Hey! Hey!” John Huff and Charlie Woodman ran through the mystery of ravine and town and time. “Hey!”

Douglas moved slowly down the path. The ravine was indeed the place where you came to look at the two things of life, the ways of man and the ways of the natural world. The town was, after all, only a large ship filled with constantly moving survivors, bailing out the grass, chipping away the rust. Now and again a lifeboat, a shanty, kin to the mother ship, lost out to the quiet storm of seasons, sank down in silent waves of termite and ant into swallowing ravine to feel the flicker of grasshoppers rattling like dry paper in hot weeds, become soundproofed with spider dust and finally, in avalanche of shingle and tar, collapse like kindling shrines into a bonfire, which thunderstorms ignited with blue lightning, while flash-photographing the triumph of the wilderness.

It was this then, the mystery of man seizing from the land and the land seizing back, year after year, that drew Douglas, knowing the towns never really won, they merely existed in calm peril, fully accoutered with lawn mower, bug spray and hedge shears, swimming steadily as long as civilization said to swim, but each house ready to sink in green tides, buried forever, when the last man ceased and his trowels and mowers shattered to cereal flakes of rust.”
― Ray Bradbury