I think men should go see Beaches too. I think they'll understand women better.
I love L. A. for the beach and stuff, thats the reason I live here.
There's not much that doesn't get me stoked. I love what I do and am so passionate about it that I get stoked on the simplest things - watching the sunrise, walking on the beach, going for a run through the forest or along the coast. One of my all time favorite things is surfing amazing waves with my family and best friends.
I never worked less than 16-hour days on South Beach.
What were the bodies like on the beach? Ugly and white and ruined by offices.
People see me and they squeal like tropical birds or seals stranded on the beach.
I go to the saltwater and wash off the blood, trying to decide which I hate more, pain or itching. Fed up, I stomp back onto the beach, turn my face upward and snap, "Hey, Haymitch, if you're not too drunk, we could use a little something for our skin. " It's almost funny how quickly the parachute appears above me. I reach up and the tube lands squarely in my open hand. "About time" I say, but I can't keep the scowl on my face. Haymitch. What I wouldn't give for five minutes of conversation with him.
I was trying to put myself in a bottle that would one day wash up on the beach for my children. If I were a painter, I would have painted for them. If I were a musician, I would have composed music. But I am a lecturer. So I lectured.
Land! An island! We devoured it greedily with our eyes and woke the others, who tumbled out drowsily and stared in all directions as if they thought our bow was about to run on to a beach. Screaming seabirds formed a bridge across the sky in the direction of the distant island, which stood out sharper against the horizon as the red background widened and turned gold with the approach of the sun and the full daylight.
Coogee is a delightful, slightly old-fashioned suburb; it has parks and gardens and reserves, a good well-kept beach, and an excellent promenade above the beach. It is a suburb for people who appreciate those aspects of life.
When the inhabitants of some sequestered island first descry the "big canoe" of the European rolling through the blue waters towards their shores, they rush down to the beach in crowds, and with open arms stand ready to embrace the strangers. Fatal embrace! They fold to their bosoms the vipers whose sting is destined to poison all their joys; and the instinctive feeling of love within their breasts is soon converted into the bitterest hate.
In one universe, they are gorgeous, straight-teethed, long-legged, wrapped in designer fashions, and given sports cars on their sixteenth birthdays. Teacher smile at them and grade them on the curve. They know the first names of the staff. They are the Pride of the Trojans. Oops – I mean Pride of the Blue Devils. In Universe #2, they throw parties wild enough to attract college students. They worship the stink of Eau de Jocque. They rent beach houses in Cancún during Spring Break and get group-rate abortions before prom.
Beaches, music, and car rides—they could all bring on a sudden bout of deep, dreamy thoughts.
Honor is like an island, rugged and without a beach; once we have left it, we can never return.
When we reached the beach, Leif fell to his knees with a dramatic cry. "Solid ground! I'll never take you for granted again. " "Are you going to kiss the sand?" I asked. "Don't be ridiculous. " "Now I'M the one being silly?" "Yes.
It's like — I don't know, sometimes it's like chasing a pretty girl on the beach. And things I never thought I could do. . . I can do.
There's nobody living who couldn't stand all afternoon in front of a waterfall. . . . Anyone who can sit on a stone in a field awhile can see my painting. Nature is like parting a curtain, you go into it. . . . as you would cross an empty beach to look at the ocean.
Lou Tyrrell has created a theatre that is a safe haven for playwrights, a birthing center for new American writing. Arts Garage has created a vital, enthusiastic audience for theatre, music, painting and sculpture in Delray Beach.
I supply my own angels and demons. I exist on a stony beach, which lowers itself in waves toward a protective ocean. A dog barks; a child cries; the day sinks and becomes night. You can never scare me. No human being will be able to scare me ever again. I have a prayer that I repeat to myself in absolute stillness: May a wind come to stir up the ocean and the stifling twilight. May a bird come from water out there and explode the silence with its call.
I played at the Sainte Maxime Beach Soccer Tournament, which was brilliant fun as usual.
