the place was like a wasteland. The whole landscape was trashed, I couldn’t even take a step without stepping on something that was hazardous to my health. And in the middle of all the mess was something I wasn’t expecting at all. A boy. He was no older than ten by the looks of it. He was just laying there, limp and still and completely alone before I got to him.
The opposite of such a thing is in my heart today. What can you ask yourself to inspire, invite or imagine the most happy and content place to sit in yourself? What could you do, what would you eat, smell, or touch. Who would you be around and what would that mean for you and other people?
there is no such thing as a geographical wasteland. there is purpose in all land, and all land supports life of some sort.
now….if you’re talking people? yes. emotional wasteland…. definitely. lost in endless nonproductive thinking is a personal wasteland.
Wasteland reminds me of a song called “Wasteland” that is on the soundtrack to the movie She’s the Man. It’s one of my favorite movies to watch. Jeana and I watch it together all the time. We just watched it last week before we finished finals and graduated. We know the whole thing word by word so us watching it is really just us reciting it while watching it.
The area near my house is a wasteland. It is all wet and mucky. No one is ever back there as it is almost impossible to cross without getting your shoes and lower legs wet and dirty. it is covered with grass with deep pools of dirt, mud and water.
Everything is wasteland, because everything resorts to what it was. Everything has to become dry and empty. My mind is a wasteland, but more importantly I’m a wasteland. And the words that I tell you make you dry, and make you lick your lips for water. You hate me because I’m making you a wasteland too.
As she stood on the small crest of the hill, the scene unfolded itself before her eyes: long, endless stretches of burned houses and charcoaled ground, scorched telephone poles rising from the debris like broken, jagged arms.
She felt like a wasteland. Like a big emotionless wasteland. That was the way that he made her feel. And it was awful. She hated feeling like that. She absolutely hated it. She wanted to feel loved by him. She deserved to be loved. He owed her that much.
Black clouds hung above an expanse of cracked brown ad grey dirt.
Here and there a thicket of lifeless plants. Even the weeds seemed dead.
Cliffs and hills lined the horizon. The only sound was that of whistling wind and shifting dust.
Cesspools of muddy water from the last rainfall with swirling flies dwindled, barely eking out an existence in a land of death.
There was a wasteland in teh end of the alley, it was aa very long wasteland, you couldn’t imagine any longer than that, I could bet that you would want to live there aswell for this was a very special wasteland you’ll see.
is where the crows live. there are old ladies, wearing rags and old, stinky skirts, who carry bags with memories in them of lovers that will never come back to them. Soldiers and colonels with faded uniforms that will never smell coffee again. The land of the forgotten.
Wish I could take a snapshot of the image in my brain.
I’m reminded of a project from first grade. It wasn’t my project. Someone else made it. It was made from a styrofoam cup, some cardboard or cardstock, and a bunch of sand and rocks I think. The cup was on its side and mounted to the wall, and a “peephole” was cut into the bottom. When you looked through (to the enclosed layer of sand and rocks) you were supposed to be seeing how our future world would look if we kept having pollution. (Pollution was big when I was in grade school!) I looked through the peephole all the time. I found it fascinating.
I find it fascinating now that I was fascinated by *that* back then!
Es ist ein Verschwendeland, alles wird weggeworfen und es wird zu viel von allem produziert, egal, ob es gebraucht wird, nur für den Fall der Fälle, sonst schwimmen sie davon. Und keiner weiß mehr, wohin mit dem Zeug. Es gibt genügend Ressourcen, aber nicht genügend Platz für alles.
The wasteland was odd, as if someone had suddenly taken a lit torch and dropped it on the country side.
The hills, which should have been green at this time of the year, were blackened, and as the girl stood on the top of one such hill, her toes buried in the dirt, her dirty hair flickering in the wind, she resolved to find out just what had happened to create this catastrophe.
Wasteland. That’s my life. There’s nothing but dreams. And acquaintances. I feel so dead inside. School is meaningless, and it would be absolutely meaningless without my stupid fantasies and stupid ideas. I wish I could have real things. But I’m
not good enough. Brave enough. Alive enough.
I was finally going home. All of the world had had the potential of becoming nothing, a wasteland. But it was safe and secure, and I could return to my home. Not the one where I was born, but the one that held my family, friends, and life. I smiled to myself and said, “Tell the world I’m coming home.”
A wasteland is a place where things go that are no longer needed. You can place garbage in somewhat of a “wasteland” or you could say that a druggie lives in his own mental wasteland. I’m not really sure what else there is to say about this. It’s a compound word made up of the two words waste and land. It has 9 letters total.
WASTELAND IS WHAT IT FEELS LIKE US HUMANS ARE TURNING INTO SOON IT WILL BE NOTHING BUT TRASH AND DIRT AND SWLFISH PEOPLE i WANT TP SEE MORE PEOPLE CARE ABOUT THE OTHER PEOPLE ON THIS PLANET INSTEAD OF JUST OURSLEVES BECAUSE I FOR ONE DO NOT WANT TO BE HERE ALONE AND IF WE DONT START TO TAKE CARE OF ONE ANOTHER THEN WE WILL ALSO DESTROY OUR BEAUTIFUL EARTH AND EVERYTHING WILL BE A WASTELAND WHEN WE COULD MAKE THIS A PARIDISE WHERE EVERYONE FEELS LOVED AND HAS WAHT THEY NEED TO SURIVIE AND GET ALONG WITH ONE ANOTHER mY DREAM
what is left when the princess cannot follow through on the plan. is it really a harbinger of the end? the quest is over for the few but what of other generations…will they repeat the same mistakes?
Some people look down their noses at me for working at a landfill. And sure I do often come home smelling of sour milk, there is always grim under my finger nails, and I own only one gray suit. But still I wouldn’t of trades jobs with any one in the world, and I felt that way even before I found this strange magical chest laying amongst the rubbish of the city.
He called it a field, but really it was just a wasteland. It stood behind the factory, an extensive patch of hard ground with tall grass and weeds. This was the only place he was ever free.
ts eliot wrote this book. i have never been a fan of ts eliot, but i like emerson, not so much whitman, although one of the english teachers here is trying to convert me. my favorite of that generation of writers would have to be thoreau. the man was not only a genius, but was a humanitarian of the finest type.
To see was to endure
in the barren plains.
No one knew anymore than the next, and yet somehow there was life.
a weed among the rocks.
a scuttle among the dead,
empty wasteland.
On the last day before my vacation, being at work seems like a wasteland. People in and out of my office like zombies demanding attention when all I want to do is finish my work and begin the relaxation. Piles of dead-end tasks build up on my desk and threaten to stall the appointed moment when I walk out and try to forget about the place.
There it was. Tall mountains of debris spattered about all over the field; the remnants of memories and ideas tossed haphazardly in every direction. HOLY SHITS.
the teenage wasteland was a desolate place and her home. refuse everywhere, druggies everywhere. addicts shooting up. gray skies hung heavy over their heads like a too-thick blanket on a summer night. this was her home. she looked around her, hopeful to escape but knowing the the unlikeliness of this prospect.
in the wasteland, there are many colors
but none as colorful as your eyes
i do not remember where i belong
until i see the pools of wisdom and love
that spring from the depths of your soul
the wasteland drains me, sucks me in
but simply a look from you refreshes me
entirely
america is becoming a wasteland. kids are growing up playing video games, not going outside playing hide and seek like i used to, girls are comparing themselves to others on facebook and social networking is the new way to express yourself. no one has to work for anything anymore. america is becoming the wasteland of the world, an idiocracy if you will.
an unused mind is a wasteland. stop. think. listen. feel. understand. stretch. don’t hide. leave the wasteland behind. there is too much at stake. or nothing at all. up to you.
The backyard of my new apartment looks like the set of a post-apocolyptic zombie movie. The concrete is cracked and piled in the grass, there is an overturned shopping cart, and half a dirty mannequin. Recently the neighbor called the police on it. The yard I mean. Which might be a weirder thing to do.
A poem by T. S. Eliot. It goes a little something like:
I. The Burial of the Dead
APRIL is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
Winter kept us warm, covering 5
Earth in forgetful snow, feeding
A little life with dried tubers.
Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee
With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade,
And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten, 10
And drank coffee, and talked for an hour.
Bin gar keine Russin, stamm’ aus Litauen, echt deutsch.
And when we were children, staying at the archduke’s,
My cousin’s, he took me out on a sled,
And I was frightened. He said, Marie, 15
Marie, hold on tight. And down we went.
In the mountains, there you feel free.
I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter.
What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow
Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man, 20
You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,
And the dry stone no sound of water. Only
There is shadow under this red rock, 25
(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),
And I will show you something different from either
Your shadow at morning striding behind you
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
I will show you fear in a handful of dust.
Frisch weht der Wind
Der Heimat zu.
Mein Irisch Kind,
Wo weilest du?
The wasteland was a fictitious place. It was inconceivable how anyone could find anything in such a barren overgrown space;but there was where I truly found myself. The terrain of the wasteland was unbearable yet I still wandered wondrously with one all-consuming thought, a thought I may not ever remember.
You could call it a wasteland, but I call it my backyard. The desert stretches for miles, and I never get enough of it. When I’m finally feeling too old, I’m just going to walk out there and keep going until I drop. Your wasteland is my heaven.
i once thought i made up the word wastelandic. it turned out i did because it definitely isnt a word. and now that its underlined as a typo..im sre of it. it reminds me of a fantasy movie and also of trash
it was barren there
nothing but despair
in that troubled air
but he who ran with spite
tried with all his might
to cease the contrite
sight in the light.
the place was like a wasteland. The whole landscape was trashed, I couldn’t even take a step without stepping on something that was hazardous to my health. And in the middle of all the mess was something I wasn’t expecting at all. A boy. He was no older than ten by the looks of it. He was just laying there, limp and still and completely alone before I got to him.
The opposite of such a thing is in my heart today. What can you ask yourself to inspire, invite or imagine the most happy and content place to sit in yourself? What could you do, what would you eat, smell, or touch. Who would you be around and what would that mean for you and other people?
there is no such thing as a geographical wasteland. there is purpose in all land, and all land supports life of some sort.
now….if you’re talking people? yes. emotional wasteland…. definitely. lost in endless nonproductive thinking is a personal wasteland.
Wasteland reminds me of a song called “Wasteland” that is on the soundtrack to the movie She’s the Man. It’s one of my favorite movies to watch. Jeana and I watch it together all the time. We just watched it last week before we finished finals and graduated. We know the whole thing word by word so us watching it is really just us reciting it while watching it.
The area near my house is a wasteland. It is all wet and mucky. No one is ever back there as it is almost impossible to cross without getting your shoes and lower legs wet and dirty. it is covered with grass with deep pools of dirt, mud and water.
Everything is wasteland, because everything resorts to what it was. Everything has to become dry and empty. My mind is a wasteland, but more importantly I’m a wasteland. And the words that I tell you make you dry, and make you lick your lips for water. You hate me because I’m making you a wasteland too.
As she stood on the small crest of the hill, the scene unfolded itself before her eyes: long, endless stretches of burned houses and charcoaled ground, scorched telephone poles rising from the debris like broken, jagged arms.
She felt like a wasteland. Like a big emotionless wasteland. That was the way that he made her feel. And it was awful. She hated feeling like that. She absolutely hated it. She wanted to feel loved by him. She deserved to be loved. He owed her that much.
Wasteland is a place or situation that feels abandoned and far from repair. A desert wasteland is uninhabited by people
Black clouds hung above an expanse of cracked brown ad grey dirt.
Here and there a thicket of lifeless plants. Even the weeds seemed dead.
Cliffs and hills lined the horizon. The only sound was that of whistling wind and shifting dust.
Cesspools of muddy water from the last rainfall with swirling flies dwindled, barely eking out an existence in a land of death.
There was a wasteland in teh end of the alley, it was aa very long wasteland, you couldn’t imagine any longer than that, I could bet that you would want to live there aswell for this was a very special wasteland you’ll see.
is where the crows live. there are old ladies, wearing rags and old, stinky skirts, who carry bags with memories in them of lovers that will never come back to them. Soldiers and colonels with faded uniforms that will never smell coffee again. The land of the forgotten.
wasteland…
Wish I could take a snapshot of the image in my brain.
I’m reminded of a project from first grade. It wasn’t my project. Someone else made it. It was made from a styrofoam cup, some cardboard or cardstock, and a bunch of sand and rocks I think. The cup was on its side and mounted to the wall, and a “peephole” was cut into the bottom. When you looked through (to the enclosed layer of sand and rocks) you were supposed to be seeing how our future world would look if we kept having pollution. (Pollution was big when I was in grade school!) I looked through the peephole all the time. I found it fascinating.
I find it fascinating now that I was fascinated by *that* back then!
Es ist ein Verschwendeland, alles wird weggeworfen und es wird zu viel von allem produziert, egal, ob es gebraucht wird, nur für den Fall der Fälle, sonst schwimmen sie davon. Und keiner weiß mehr, wohin mit dem Zeug. Es gibt genügend Ressourcen, aber nicht genügend Platz für alles.
teenage wasteland, troubled youth, teens, years of distress. peril. high school. shit. crap. hate. i hate high school.
The wasteland was odd, as if someone had suddenly taken a lit torch and dropped it on the country side.
The hills, which should have been green at this time of the year, were blackened, and as the girl stood on the top of one such hill, her toes buried in the dirt, her dirty hair flickering in the wind, she resolved to find out just what had happened to create this catastrophe.
Wasteland. That’s my life. There’s nothing but dreams. And acquaintances. I feel so dead inside. School is meaningless, and it would be absolutely meaningless without my stupid fantasies and stupid ideas. I wish I could have real things. But I’m
not good enough. Brave enough. Alive enough.
I was finally going home. All of the world had had the potential of becoming nothing, a wasteland. But it was safe and secure, and I could return to my home. Not the one where I was born, but the one that held my family, friends, and life. I smiled to myself and said, “Tell the world I’m coming home.”
T.S. Eliot’s the Wasteland: important poem for Modernism. “April is the cruelest month.” “Shanti shanti shanti.” A pretty boring poem, I would say.
A wasteland is a place where things go that are no longer needed. You can place garbage in somewhat of a “wasteland” or you could say that a druggie lives in his own mental wasteland. I’m not really sure what else there is to say about this. It’s a compound word made up of the two words waste and land. It has 9 letters total.
Noun. A barren place, usually considered inhospitable. A place full of a variety of significant dangers, many of them lethal. Enter at your own risk.
WASTELAND IS WHAT IT FEELS LIKE US HUMANS ARE TURNING INTO SOON IT WILL BE NOTHING BUT TRASH AND DIRT AND SWLFISH PEOPLE i WANT TP SEE MORE PEOPLE CARE ABOUT THE OTHER PEOPLE ON THIS PLANET INSTEAD OF JUST OURSLEVES BECAUSE I FOR ONE DO NOT WANT TO BE HERE ALONE AND IF WE DONT START TO TAKE CARE OF ONE ANOTHER THEN WE WILL ALSO DESTROY OUR BEAUTIFUL EARTH AND EVERYTHING WILL BE A WASTELAND WHEN WE COULD MAKE THIS A PARIDISE WHERE EVERYONE FEELS LOVED AND HAS WAHT THEY NEED TO SURIVIE AND GET ALONG WITH ONE ANOTHER mY DREAM
what is left when the princess cannot follow through on the plan. is it really a harbinger of the end? the quest is over for the few but what of other generations…will they repeat the same mistakes?
Some people look down their noses at me for working at a landfill. And sure I do often come home smelling of sour milk, there is always grim under my finger nails, and I own only one gray suit. But still I wouldn’t of trades jobs with any one in the world, and I felt that way even before I found this strange magical chest laying amongst the rubbish of the city.
He called it a field, but really it was just a wasteland. It stood behind the factory, an extensive patch of hard ground with tall grass and weeds. This was the only place he was ever free.
ts eliot wrote this book. i have never been a fan of ts eliot, but i like emerson, not so much whitman, although one of the english teachers here is trying to convert me. my favorite of that generation of writers would have to be thoreau. the man was not only a genius, but was a humanitarian of the finest type.
To see was to endure
in the barren plains.
No one knew anymore than the next, and yet somehow there was life.
a weed among the rocks.
a scuttle among the dead,
empty wasteland.
On the last day before my vacation, being at work seems like a wasteland. People in and out of my office like zombies demanding attention when all I want to do is finish my work and begin the relaxation. Piles of dead-end tasks build up on my desk and threaten to stall the appointed moment when I walk out and try to forget about the place.
this wasted land, this wasted and vacant body. feel me, come feel me and fill this wastland.
There it was. Tall mountains of debris spattered about all over the field; the remnants of memories and ideas tossed haphazardly in every direction. HOLY SHITS.
the teenage wasteland was a desolate place and her home. refuse everywhere, druggies everywhere. addicts shooting up. gray skies hung heavy over their heads like a too-thick blanket on a summer night. this was her home. she looked around her, hopeful to escape but knowing the the unlikeliness of this prospect.
in the wasteland, there are many colors
but none as colorful as your eyes
i do not remember where i belong
until i see the pools of wisdom and love
that spring from the depths of your soul
the wasteland drains me, sucks me in
but simply a look from you refreshes me
entirely
america is becoming a wasteland. kids are growing up playing video games, not going outside playing hide and seek like i used to, girls are comparing themselves to others on facebook and social networking is the new way to express yourself. no one has to work for anything anymore. america is becoming the wasteland of the world, an idiocracy if you will.
an unused mind is a wasteland. stop. think. listen. feel. understand. stretch. don’t hide. leave the wasteland behind. there is too much at stake. or nothing at all. up to you.
The backyard of my new apartment looks like the set of a post-apocolyptic zombie movie. The concrete is cracked and piled in the grass, there is an overturned shopping cart, and half a dirty mannequin. Recently the neighbor called the police on it. The yard I mean. Which might be a weirder thing to do.
A poem by T. S. Eliot. It goes a little something like:
I. The Burial of the Dead
APRIL is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
Winter kept us warm, covering 5
Earth in forgetful snow, feeding
A little life with dried tubers.
Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee
With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade,
And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten, 10
And drank coffee, and talked for an hour.
Bin gar keine Russin, stamm’ aus Litauen, echt deutsch.
And when we were children, staying at the archduke’s,
My cousin’s, he took me out on a sled,
And I was frightened. He said, Marie, 15
Marie, hold on tight. And down we went.
In the mountains, there you feel free.
I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter.
What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow
Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man, 20
You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,
And the dry stone no sound of water. Only
There is shadow under this red rock, 25
(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),
And I will show you something different from either
Your shadow at morning striding behind you
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
I will show you fear in a handful of dust.
Frisch weht der Wind
Der Heimat zu.
Mein Irisch Kind,
Wo weilest du?
And a bit more of course
The wasteland was a fictitious place. It was inconceivable how anyone could find anything in such a barren overgrown space;but there was where I truly found myself. The terrain of the wasteland was unbearable yet I still wandered wondrously with one all-consuming thought, a thought I may not ever remember.
You could call it a wasteland, but I call it my backyard. The desert stretches for miles, and I never get enough of it. When I’m finally feeling too old, I’m just going to walk out there and keep going until I drop. Your wasteland is my heaven.
i once thought i made up the word wastelandic. it turned out i did because it definitely isnt a word. and now that its underlined as a typo..im sre of it. it reminds me of a fantasy movie and also of trash