It is only when the hearts of the Women are in the mud, that the People are destroyed.
Politicians must set their aims for the high ground and according to our various leanings, Democratic, Republican, Independent, we will follow. Politicians must be told if they continue to sink into the mud of obscenity, they will proceed alone.
I think poems return us to that place of mud and dirt and earth, sun and rain.
I was at Woodstock. In the mud.
Almost every month, I have a day where I get stuck in the mud of me. I used to blame hormones and PMS. After I hit 50, I blamed the lack of hormones. But men get stuck, too, so it must simply be the human condition.
War has rules, mud wrestling has rules – politics has no rules.
My best friend was a magpie goose, and my magpie goose would follow me around, and we’d dance in the zoo together. Then I’d be covered in mud!
I ran a marathon, completed a mud run and jumped from a plane.
I never had a budget, I never had a manager, I never had a PR. I never had nothing. I was getting everything straight out the mud.
Two men look out the same prison bars; one sees mud and the other stars.
I wrote ‘Mud’ for Matthew McConaughey and had never met him.
I suffered from some delusion that I wanted to be an English country girl, a Sloane Ranger donning the old Hunter boots and Barbour jacket to slosh around in mud with the Range Rover.
Writing is like walking in a deserted street. Out of the dust in the street you make a mud pie.
I was definitely a tomboy. My mother liked to dress me differently, but it was her loss when I came home with mud in my hair every day. I’ve always been more comfortable with guys; I don’t know why.
We did not had enough facilities in the village. My family was also not well off. There was no mat, no gym; we used to wrestle in the mud. It was very different from the national camps where I trained before the Commonwealth Games.
I give thanks for the fact that I can get this stick with a bit of steel nib on the end, dip it in some black carbon stuff, and draw on paper. Now, people did it the same way 2,000 years ago. And there’s something lovely about that play, and making mud pies and a mess. That’s a lovely privilege.
The human soul is heavy, clumsy, held in the mud of the flesh. Its perceptions are still coarse and brutish. It can divine nothing clearly, nothing with certainty.
On a sea floor that looks like a sandy mud bottom, that at first glance might appear to be sand and mud, when you look closely and sit there as I do for a while and just wait, all sorts of creatures show themselves, with little heads popping out of the sand. It is a metropolis.
I was 10 when I left Kulm, N.D. I had a wonderful childhood there, out playing in the mud. We moved to California then, but I still went to Catholic school, didn’t grow up very sophisticated or very liberal.
Pages: 1 2
