Hybrid Minds Quotes

Love: a hybrid emotion made up of various other emotions collaged by some weak individual's mind to try to quell a particular horror that's not been wiped out by more standardized symbols like Christ, etc. Nietzsche, right? Whatever.

Seriously, our nation is never going to be on the same page on issues like gun control, welfare, the economy, the environment, etc. I doubt we'll ever come to terms on tastes great or less filling and hybrids versus Hummers, and there will always be Yankees fans and Red Sox fans, and never the 'twain shall meet. Fortunately, all it takes for us to be of one mind is some buttercream frosting.

Love and hate both are attachments. If you love apple and hate orange, life will give you such a hybrid of apple and orange that you will neither be able to eat it nor throw it. So, don’t let your dislikes turn into hate.

Sadly, at a time when so much sophisticated cultural criticism by hip intellectuals from diverse locations extols a vision of cultural hybridity, border crossing, subjectivity constructed out of plurality, the vast majority of folks in this society still believe in a notion of identity that is rooted in a sense of essential traits and characteristics that are fixed and static.

He stared back at me so blatantly I wanted to smack him. “I know. Like I said, that… was never my intention. It was an accident.” My mouth dropped open. “Did you slip and fall on my bed? Because I don’t understand how you’ve accidentally ended up there.” Red stained the tips of his cheeks. “I check the outside, and then I check the inside just to be sure. Hybrids can get into your house, Katy, as you already know. So could Daedalus if they wanted.” What would he have done if Daemon had been there? Then it struck me and I felt sick all over again. “How long do you watch at night?” He shrugged. “A couple of hours.” So he’d have known if Daemon had come over most of the time, and the rest was just sheer dumb luck. Part of me wished he’d tried it just once when Daemon was there. He wouldn’t be walking right for months. There was a good chance he may leave this stairwell with a limp. Blake seemed to sense where my mind went. “After I checked inside your house, I… I don’t know what happened. You have bad dreams.” I wondered why. I had perverts sleeping in the bed with me.

He retrieved the words from somewhere long forgotten. They floated through the foggy recesses of his mind, plucked from the dark and released into the air like a dove.

But, like all metaphoric wars, the copyright wars are not actual conflicts of survival. Or at least, they are not conflicts for survival of a people or a society, even if they are wars of survival for certain businesses or, more accurately, business models. Thus we must keep in mind the other values or objectives that might also be affected by this war. We must make sure this war doesn't cost more than it is worth. We must be sure it is winnable, or winnable at a price we're willing to pay.

You would do good to keep in mind there is a good reason all these people are after me.

How about a favor?” I asked impulsively –foolishly. Oh, but how I would regret these words. I was sure about that. But nothing else came to mind, and to regret it, I still had to live.

The slow overture of rain, each drop breaking without breaking into the next, describes the unrelenting, syncopated mind. Not unlike the hummingbirds imagining their wings to be their heart, and swallows believing the horizon to be a line they lift and drop. —Jorie Graham, from “Mind,” Hybrids of Plants and of Ghosts. (Princeton University Press; First Edition edition June 21, 1980)

I had lied to myself from the very beginning, deceived myself into believing that I was being fanciful and overly imaginative. Surely such monstrosities only existed in nightmares? Yet I had lived through a nightmare these past months, and that was no dream at all.        I was still fighting against the awful truth, not wanting to give in, searching my mind for a logical explanation—but there was none. And the most horrible realization of all was that I had known, somewhere deep inside, ever since the day I first set eyes on Vladec Salei.        Plague carrier.        Living death.        Drainer of life.        The phrasing did not matter. No euphemism could strike fear into the hearts of men the way that single word could.        Vampire.         And for me, the uninitiated, that single word meant death.

As New York Times columnist Charles Blow observed, “Trump’s magical mixture is to make being afraid feel like fun. His rallies are a hybrid of concert revelry and combat prep. Trump tells his followers about all the things of which they should be afraid, or shouldn’t trust or should hate, and then positions himself as the greatest defense against those things. His supporters roar their approval at their white knight.

Open yer mind to the world, kids. No point havin' yer windows open if yer don't pull back the curtains to let in the light!" - Grandpa's favourite saying to Kirsten and Jeremy. Quoted in The Hybrid and the Emeralds of Elisar

And to start with I would focus on five of these killer apps that have immediate application to governing today: (1) the ability to adapt when confronted by strangers with superior economic and military might without being hobbled by humiliation; (2) the ability to embrace diversity; (3) the ability to assume ownership over the future and one’s own problems; (4) the ability to get the balance right between the federal and the local—that is, to understand that a healthy society, like a healthy tropical forest, is a network of healthy ecosystems on top of ecosystems, each thriving on its own but nourished by the whole; and, maybe most important, (5) the ability to approach politics and problem-solving in the age of accelerations with a mind-set that is entrepreneurial, hybrid, and heterodox and nondogmatic—mixing and coevolving any ideas or ideologies that will create resilience and propulsion, no matter whose “side” they come from. Of

My current way of teaching mindfulness is, in part, informed by this early Shingon training. I have people observe self in terms of inner mental images, mental talk, and emotional body sensation, the three sensory elements used in the Vajrayana deity yoga practice. I’ve created a hybrid approach. What I have people observe is derived from the Japanese Vajrayana paradigm: self = mental image + mental talk + body. But how I have people observe is derived from mindfulness, which has its origin in Southeast Asian Theravada practice.

We're all adults here—we all know the score. We know what they do to people like me and my mom, to paradoxical hybrids of arrogant narcissism and vulnerable naïveté. We know what happens to unreconstructed surrealist militants. Tortured. Marked for assassination. Imagine what awaits me out there.

Hey, I think I'm losing my mind now Having trouble finding a way out Shined so bright, this star's gonna burn out I take and don't know how to give You know I never mean well I can't help but help myself Been placed right under the spell The mirror shows somebody else Fat stacks and hybrid cars They don't take ya very far Branded with dollar-sign shaped scars We're in a special kind of hell

The tired intellectual sums up the deformities and the vices of a world adrift. He does not act, he suffers; if he favors the notion of tolerance, he does not find in it the stimulant he needs. Tyranny furnishes that, as do the doctrines of which it is the outcome. If he is the first of its victims, he will not complain: only the strength that grinds him into the dust seduces him. To want to be free is to want to be oneself; but he is tired of being himself, of blazing a trail into uncertainty, of stumbling through truths. “Bind me with the chains of Illusion,” he sighs, even as he says farewell to the peregrinations of Knowledge. Thus he will fling himself, eyes closed, into any mythology which will assure him the protection and the peace of the yoke. Declining the honor of assuming his own anxieties, he will engage in enterprises from which he anticipates sensations he could not derive from himself, so that the excesses of his lassitude will confirm the tyrannies. Churches, ideologies, police—seek out their origin in the horror he feels for his own lucidity, rather than in the stupidity of the masses. This weakling transforms himself, in the name of a know-nothing utopia, into a gravedigger of the intellect; convinced of doing something useful, he prostitutes Pascal’s old “abêtissezvous,” the Solitary’s tragic device. A routed iconoclast, disillusioned with paradox and provocation, in search of impersonality and routine, half prostrated, ripe for the stereotype, the tired intellectual abdicates his singularity and rejoins the rabble. Nothing more to overturn, if not himself: the last idol to smash … His own debris lures him on. While he contemplates it, he shapes the idol of new gods or restores the old ones by baptizing them with new names. Unable to sustain the dignity of being fastidious, less and less inclined to winnow truths, he is content with those he is offered. By-product of his ego, he proceeds—a wrecker gone to seed—to crawl before the altars, or before what takes their place. In the temple or on the tribunal, his place is where there is singing, or shouting—no longer a chance to hear one’s own voice. A parody of belief? It matters little to him, since all he aspires to is to desist from himself. All his philosophy has concluded in a refrain, all his pride foundered on a Hosanna! Let us be fair: as things stand now, what else could he do? Europe’s charm, her originality resided in the acuity of her critical spirit, in her militant, aggressive skepticism; this skepticism has had its day. Hence the intellectual, frustrated in his doubts, seeks out the compensations of dogma. Having reached the confines of analysis, struck down by the void he discovers there, he turns on his heel and attempts to seize the first certainty to come along; but he lacks the naiveté to hold onto it; henceforth, a fanatic without convictions, he is no more than an ideologist, a hybrid thinker, such as we find in all transitional periods. Participating in two different styles, he is, by the form of his intelligence, a tributary of the one of the one which is vanishing, and by the ideas he defends, of the one which is appearing. To understand him better, let us imagine an Augustine half-converted, drifting and tacking, and borrowing from Christianity only its hatred of the ancient world. Are we not in a period symmetrical with the one which saw the birth of The City of God? It is difficult to conceive of a book more timely. Today as then, men’s minds need a simple truth, an answer which delivers them from their questions, a gospel, a tomb.

In Jump Time’s developing hybrid world, capacities once nurtured in separate societies are available to the entire family of humankind. This is a stupendous happening, as important as the discovery of new continents during the time of the great sea journeys. For the first time in human history the genius of the human race is available for all to harvest. These rediscovered capacities may be evolutionary accelerators, now being gathered from many places, times, and cultures to awaken our species to who we are and what we yet may be and do. Often, however, it is not comfortable. We can for a time find ourselves strangers in a very strange land, wishing we could return to the comforts of a more insular and familiar worldview. Yet when we get beyond the shutterings of our local cultural trance, we gain the courage to nurture the emerging forms of the possible human and the possible society.

A major push is under way to figure out the molecular basis of those "critical" or "sensitive" periods, to figure out how the brain changes as certain learning abilities come and go. In some, if not all, of those mammals that have the alternating stripes in the visual cortex known as ocular dominance columns, those columns can be adjusted early in development, but not in adulthood. A juvenile monkey that has one eye covered for an extended period of time can gradually readjust its brain wiring to favor the open eye; an adult monkey cannot adjust its wiring. At the end of a critical period, a set of sticky sugar-protein hybrids known as proteoglycans condenses into a tight net around the dendrites and cell bodies of some of the relevant neurons, and in so doing those proteoglycans appear to impede axons that would otherwise be wriggling around as part of the process of readjusting the ocular dominance columns; no wriggling, no learning. In a 2002 study with rats, Italian neuroscientist Tommaso Pizzorusso and his colleagues dissolved the excess proteoglycans with an antiproteoglycan enzyme known as "chABC," and in so doing managed to reopen the critical period. After the chABC treatment, even adult rats could recalibrate their ocular dominance columns. ChABC probably won't help us learn second languages anytime soon, but its antiproteoglycan function may have important medical implications in the not-too-distant future. Another 2002 study, also with rats, showed that chABC can also promote functional recovery after spinal cord injury.

But we're not very good at building them. The forced matings of minds and electrons succeed and fail with equal spectacle. Our hybrids become as brilliant as savants, and as autistic. We graft people to prosthetics, make their overloaded motor strips juggle meat and machinery, and shake our heads when their fingers twitch and their tongues stutter. Computers bootstrap their own offspring, grow so wise and incomprehensible that their communiqués assume the hallmarks of dementia: unfocused and irrelevant to the barely-intelligent creatures left behind.

I want you, Elaine. I want your mind, your soul, your body. I want you as my mate. I offer you my soul—right now. Right here. Take it all—take everything I am,” he murmured, his lips grazing the corner of her mouth. “…and I’ll even let you keep your clothes on.” She looked up at him, gasping at his boldness. In that instance, Ian’s lips slanted across hers in a consuming, mind-numbing, heart-stopping kiss. She moaned against his mouth, drinking in his groan before pulling back, chest heaving. “We’re in church, Ian,” she panted. “God can hear us.” His lips curled into a small, knowing smile. “I’m counting on that, love.

The mind is full of monstrous, hybrid, unmanageable emotions. That the age of the earth is 3,000,000,000 years; that human life lasts but a second; that the capacity of the human mind is nevertheless boundless; that life is infinitely beautiful yet repulsive; that one's fellow creatures are adorable but disgusting; that science and religion have between them destroyed belief; that all bonds of union seem broken, yet some control must exist—it is in this atmosphere of doubt and conflict that writers have now to create, and the fine fabric of a lyric is no more fitted to contain this point of view than a rose leaf to envelop the rugged immensity of a rock.

There is something about reading, about that suspension of your own time and place to travel into others'. It's a way of disappearing from where you are - not quite entering the author's mind but engaging with it so that something arises between your mind and hers. You translate words into your own images, faces, places, light, shade and sound and emotion. A world arises in your head that you have built at the author's behest, and when you're present in that world you're absent from your own. You're a phantom in both worlds and a god of sorts in the world that is not exactly what the author wrote but some hybrid of her imagination and yours. The words are instructions, the book a kit, the full existence of the book something immaterial, internal, an event rather than an object and then an influence and then a memory. It's the reader who brings the book to life.

Hybrid warfare particularly appeals to China and Russia, since they are much more able to control the information their populaces receive than are their Western adversaries. A 1999 book, Unrestricted Warfare, written by two People’s Liberation Army colonels suggests that militarily, technologically and economically weaker states can use unorthodox forms of warfare to defeat a materially superior enemy – and clearly they had the United States and NATO in mind. Rather than focusing on direct military confrontation, the weaker state might succeed against the dominant opponent by shifting the arena of conflict into economic, terrorist and even legal avenues as leverage to be used to undercut more traditional means of warfare. The subtitle of their book, Two Air Force Senior Colonels on Scenarios for War and the Operational Art in an Era of Globalization, notes a core truth of the early twenty-first century: an increasingly globalized world deepens reliance upon, and the interdependence of, nations, which in turn can be used as leverage to exploit, undermine and sabotage a dominant power. The two colonels might not be happy with the lesson their book teaches Westerners, which is that no superpower can afford to be isolationist. One way to keep America great, therefore, is to stay firmly plugged into – and leading – the international system, as it has generally done impressively in leading the Western world’s response to the invasion of Ukraine. The siren voices of American isolationism inevitably lead to a weaker United States.

So what did you and Landon do this afternoon?” Minka asked, her soft voice dragging him back to the present. Angelo looked up to see that Minka had already polished off two fajitas. Damn, the girl could eat. “Landon gave me a tour of the DCO complex. I did some target shooting and blew up a few things. He even let me play with the expensive surveillance toys. I swear, it felt more like a recruiting pitch to get me to work there than anything.” Minka’s eyes flashed green, her full lips curving slightly. Damn, why the hell had he said it like that? Now she probably thought he was going to come work for the DCO. Even if he wanted to, he couldn’t, not after just reenlisting for another five years. The army wasn’t the kind of job where you could walk into the boss’s office and say, “I quit.” Thinking it would be a good idea to steer the conversation back to safer ground, he reached for another fajita and asked Minka a question instead. “What do you think you’ll work on next with Ivy and Tanner? You going to practice with the claws for a while or move on to something else?” Angelo felt a little crappy about changing the subject, but if Minka noticed, she didn’t seem to mind. And it wasn’t like he had to fake interest in what she was saying. Anything that involved Minka was important to him. Besides, he didn’t know much about shifters or hybrids, so the whole thing was pretty damn fascinating. “What do you visualize when you see the beast in your mind?” he asked. “Before today, I thought of it as a giant, blurry monster. But after learning that the beast is a cat, that’s how I picture it now.” She smiled. “Not a little house cat, of course. They aren’t scary enough. More like a big cat that roams the mountains.” “Makes sense,” he said. Minka set the other half of her fourth fajita on her plate and gave him a curious look. “Would you mind if I ask you a personal question?” His mouth twitched as he prepared another fajita. He wasn’t used to Minka being so reserved. She usually said whatever was on her mind, regardless of whether it was personal or not. “Go ahead,” he said. “The first time we met, I had claws, fangs, glowing red eyes, and I tried to kill you. Since then, I’ve spent most of the time telling you about an imaginary creature that lives inside my head and makes me act like a monster. How are you so calm about that? Most people would have run away already.” Angelo chuckled. Not exactly the personal question he’d expected, but then again Minka rarely did the expected. “Well, my mom was full-blooded Cherokee, and I grew up around all kinds of Indian folktales and legends. My dad was in the army, and whenever he was deployed, Mom would take my sisters and me back to the reservation where she grew up in Oklahoma. I’d stay up half the night listening to the old men tell stories about shape-shifters, animal spirits, skin-walkers, and trickster spirits.” He grinned. “I’m not saying I necessarily believed in all that stuff back then, but after meeting Ivy, Tanner, and the other shifters at the DCO, it just didn’t faze me that much.” Minka looked at him with wide eyes. “You’re a real American Indian? Like in the movies? With horses and everything?” He laughed again. The expression of wonder on her face was adorable. “First, I’m only half-Indian. My dad is Mexican, so there’s that. And second, Native Americans are almost nothing like you see in the movies. We don’t all live in tepees and ride horses. In fact, I don’t even own a horse.” Minka was a little disappointed about the no-horse thing, but she was fascinated with what it was like growing up on an Indian reservation and being surrounded by all those legends. She immediately asked him to tell her some Indian stories. It had been a long time since he’d thought about them, but to make her happy, he dug through his head and tried to remember every tale he’d heard as a kid.

Development is the strategy of evasion. When you can’t give people land reform, give them hybrid cows. When you can’t send children to school, try non-formal education. When you can’t provide basic health to people, talk of health insurance. Can’t give them jobs? Not to worry, just redefine the words ‘employment opportunities’. Don't want to do away with using children as a form of slave labor? Never mind. Talk of 'improving the conditions of child labor'. It sounds good. You can even make money out of it.

While we sat at the bar, Dave told me the most important advice about talking to women I had ever received, and that was to be as relaxed as possible and not fear rejection. Dave then began hooking up with some girl who looked like a hybrid of Rosie O’Donnell and Miss Piggy, leaving me alone to ponder his words.” “When I was in 8th grade, there was this girl named Sandra who I used to ride the school bus with. Sandra was about 5’2, 120 lbs, and looked like the Hamburglar. She was the prettiest girl in my class.” “In my mind I was the life of the party and felt as though I could do no wrong when it came to interacting with the opposite sex. That was until Marissa caught me red handed hooking up with some girl who looked like a combination of John Madden and Andre the Giant, tapping me on the shoulder and kicking me square in the nuts.” “I was starting to feel bad about how I treated women. Oh wait, no I wasn’t. The girls at Binghamton were nothing more than a bunch of dumb sluts that just wanted to get drunk and suck dick, and besides, they were all going to make a lot more money than me in the future. So I may as well catch brains while these bitches were dumb enough to blow me.” “Out of all the people I could’ve stumbled into blackout drunk, why did it have to be THE MOOSE? As son as she saw me her 300 lb frame waddled over, and she jammed her tongue down my throat, devouring me as though I were a Big Mac. This was embarrassing. Here I was making out with some girl who looked like Eric Cartman in a dress, and everybody was watching. My life was effectively over.” “After annihilating Ruben’s toilet, I looked over my shoulder for some much-needed toilet paper, when to my shock and dismay there was not a single sheet of paper in sight. There’s no way in hell I was rejoining the party covered in poop and I would have wiped my ass with anything. That’s when I noticed his New York Yankees bath towel.” “I spent the rest of my week off getting completely shitfaced with Chris, and that’s when I realized I might be developing a drinking problem. At Bar None, hooking up with some girl who looked like the Loch Ness Monster; this shit had to stop. Alcohol was turning me into a drunken mess, and I vowed right then and there to quit drinking and start smoking more weed immediately.” “I got a new roommate. His name was Erick and he was an ex-marine. Erick and I didn’t know each other, but he knew Kevin, and he also knew that I didn’t shower and that last semester I left a used condom on the floor for two weeks without throwing it away. Eric therefore did not want to live with me.” “Believe it or not, I got another job working with the disabled. See, Manny was nice enough to hook me up with a position as a job coach at the Lavelle School for the Blind. The kid’s name was Fred and he was blind with cerebral palsy. Fred loved dogs and I loved smoking week. Bad combination, and I was fired with 3 days left in the program after allowing Fred to run across the street into oncoming traffic, because I had smoked a bowl an hour earlier. Manny and I never spoke again.” “My life was a dream and a nightmare rolled into one. Here I was living this carefree existence, getting drunk, boning bitches, and playing Sega Genesis in between. Oh wait, what am I talking about? My life was awesome. It’s the rest of my life that’s going to suck.

Her smile wasn't just a physical thing, a curve of our lips. It was a warmth at the edge of my mind, where I felt her presence with the same assurance I felt out heartbeat. "I remember.

You know, the PTA president who cooks organic, well-balanced meals while reading to her kids in Latin about the importance of helping others, then escorts them to the art museum in the hybrid that plays classical music and mists lavender aromatherapy through the air-conditioning vents.

The survivors of a nuclear war will be able, if they can make their way to Hutchinson, Kansas, and get 200 metres (650 feet) down into the salt-shafts, to retrieve an assortment of objects which have been chosen partly with them in mind. There are seeds of hybrid plants, the files of various commercial enterprises, secret formulae for making brand-name products, food for the treasure-finders, and even folding cots, just in case they bring their babies with them. There is a film library which includes Gone with the Wind, Polly of the Circus, and lots of Buster Keaton.

first level, which he terms recognition, “concerns the way in which we individuate and reidentify characters—that is, perceive them as unique and distinct from other characters, and as continuous across the narrative” (2005:97). Alignment, the second level of engagement, “describes the way in which our access to the thoughts, feelings, and actions of characters is controlled and organized” (2005:97). The third and highest level of engagement, allegiance, “describes an emotional reaction that arises out of the moral structuring of the film, that is, the way the film invites us to respond with regard to characters morally” (2005:97). In other words, “[w]hile alignment denotes our knowledge of a character’s actions, feelings, and states of mind, allegiance refers to our evaluation of and emotional response to such actions, feelings, and states of mind” (2005:97). Our

A “Hybrid” mind with both creativity and analytics can better adapt to a hybrid world.

We’re at church, for god sakes!” she hissed. “This isn’t right.” He shifted just so, his eyes narrowed with stubborn determination. “Why? God is love. God nurtures love. And, I love you, Elaine Pearson, and not just for your lovely body.” “You’re talking about sex, Ian.” He visually swept the church interior, noting the empty pews and flickering candles. “No, ma’am, I’m not,” he murmured, turning his attention back to her. “Sexual attraction is only a fraction of what flows between us. My body responds to you on a physical level, but that doesn’t mean I’m not in love with your mind and your soul. Remember that,” he stated with conviction, his words sounding like an order. "I can get inside your head, love. You and I are connected in the stars—whether or not you believe that singular truth is irrelevant. What we are…who we are…together…transcends the past. Every experience led us here. You need to stop fighting me…yourself…and us.

As the discussion in this chapter is predominantly concerned with TT shifts in representational hybridity, and as representational hybridity is linked to its speaker, that is, it is defined by its quality of representing the language of a character or—in the case of iconic hybridity—also an embodied narrator, it makes sense to postulate a separate language facet, as this is the facet where the absence or presence of linguistic hybridity can signal perspective, as long as we keep in mind (i) that the language facet does not necessarily belong to the same textual agent as the other facets of perspective and (ii) that TT shifts in the language facet can trigger TT shifts in other facets too. For

Semino suggests using the term “ideational point of view” to “capture those aspects of world views that are social, cultural, religious or political in origin, and which an individual is likely to share with others belonging to similar social, cultural, religious or political groups” (2002:97). The term “mind-style”, on the other hand, should be reserved to “capture those aspects of world views that are primarily personal and cognitive in origin, and which are either peculiar to a particular individual, or common to people who have the same cognitive characteristics” (2002:97).

People easily believe in the transition of energy, image and voice through the air, and into their laptops and smartphones, but not in the transition of thought. And they easily accept the possibility of cloning animals and humans, or transforming them genetically, and even making hybrids with different species, but refuse to accept that we may be a hybrid of two or more alien species as well.

Oh! A son, you have? Well, that’s a different kettle of fish entirely! Sons never know their own minds, always thinking they know better than everyone else and dashing off to make rash decisions.

Oh yes indeed! If you’re passing this way, you might bring me a jar. I wouldn’t mind tasting the stuff again. Haven’t had it in 3,000 years at least

Do any exceptions exist to the universality of hybrid organizations? The only exceptions that come to my mind are conglomerates, which are typically organized in a totally mission-oriented form. Why are they an exception to our rule? Because they do not have a common business purpose.

Open the windows wide some more; For sake of the innovatory thoughtfulness Close the doors for white-haired ideas; Encumbered the dark hairs, wholly From investment of the hybrid thoughts

Are we starting to recognize that, because Trance is a radially immersive task, and because meditating is bodily enhancing, or ecstasizing, we are actually speaking about the perfect complementarity between the body’s perceptual substance and the mind’s conceptual medium?

In a pinch, one need merely wave expansively at the universe and declare that the theory shares its structure. Unfortunately, getting any farther than this entails a few difficulties. For example, we must decide how reality should be studied in order to discover its structure, and by whom. But this gives rise to yet another problem: physics is not self-explanatory. If physics is regarded as an expression of the structure of reality, then clearly it is real, and a comprehensive theory of reality must explain its every part and aspect. But then in order to qualify as a comprehensive theory of reality, physics must explain itself, its correspondence to reality, and arguably the biological origins and mental activity of physicists in whose minds it exists.

The term "unconscious" may thus be taken to refer to those parts of the brain that are not directly involved in a consciousness-fixing perceptual/cognitive loop. This idea has deep meaning for human creative process. In any creative endeavor, be it literature, philosophy, mathematics or science, one must struggle with forms and ideas, until one's mind becomes at home among them; or in other words, until one's consciousness is able to perceive them as unified wholes.

At the exact genesis of Eternity, a God annihilated the Being. The primordial primate – the bipedal, handy, emotive human-animal – transmuted instantly into a paradox: mortal prescience. When a Being died, the dead human body activated the Godhead. The minds, of those remaining, overrode the bodies. For the first time, they saw inanimacy. They saw a corpse. The human skewed futural, into finitude. No!!! The carnal certainty of finite life, in fact, permuted an infinite language.

Hybrid Thinking is a set of digital minds integrating the multiple thought processes to think bigger, think deeper, think broader, and think critical, etc.

President Vladimir Putin has evolved a “hybrid foreign policy, a strategy that mixes normal diplomacy, military force, economic corruption and a high-tech information war.” Indeed, on any given day, the United States has found itself dealing with everything from cyberattacks by Russian intelligence hackers on the computer systems of the U.S. Democratic Party, to disinformation about what Russian troops, dressed in civilian clothes, are doing in Eastern Ukraine, to Russian attempts to take down the Facebook pages of widows of its soldiers killed in Ukraine when they mourn their husbands’ deaths, to hot money flows into Western politics or media from Russian oligarchs connected to the Kremlin. In short, Russia is taking full advantage of the age of accelerating flows to confront the United States along a much wider attack surface. While it lives in the World of Order, the Russian government under Putin doesn’t mind fomenting a little disorder—indeed, when you are a petro-state, a little disorder is welcome because it keeps the world on edge and therefore oil prices high. China is a much more status quo power. It needs a healthy U.S. economy to trade with and a stable global environment to export into. That is why the Chinese are more focused on simply dominating their immediate neighborhood. But while America has to deter these two other superpowers with one hand, it also needs to enlist their support with the other hand to help contain both the spreading World of Disorder and the super-empowered breakers. This is where things start to get tricky: on any given day Russia is a direct adversary in one part of the world, a partner in another, and a mischief-maker in another.

Almost everyone, as almost always at such concerts, was white. It is something I can't help noticing; I notice it each time, and try to see past it. Part of that is a quick, complex series of negotiations: chiding myself for even seeing it, lamenting the reminders of how divided our life still remains, being annoyed that these thoughts can be counted on to pass through my mind at some point in the evening. Most of the people around me yesterday were middle-aged or old. I am used to it, but it never ceases to surprise me how easy it is to leave the hybridity of the city, and enter into all-white spaces, the homogeneity of which, as far as I can tell, causes no discomfort to the whites in them. The only thing odd, to some of them, is seeing me, young and black, in my seat or at the concession stand. At times, standing in line for the bathroom during intermission, I get looks that make me feel like Ota Benga, the Mbuti man who was put on display in the Monkey House at the Bronx Zoo in 1906. I weary of such thoughts, but I am habituated to them. But Mahler's music is not white, or black, not old or young, and whether it is even specifically human, rather than in accord with more universal vibrations, is open to question.

from "KNEEL SAID THE NIGHT" : "...I once admitted to an older lover, as we lay naked and pleasured, that I was afraid to catch his age. Fortunately, he was compassionate. I asked if he minded my question. ...

Rousseau this first modern man, idealist and canaille in one person; who was in need of moral “dignity,” in order even to endure the sight of his own person,—ill with unbridled vanity and wanton self-contempt; this abortion, who planted his tent on the threshold of modernity, also wanted a “return to nature”; but, I ask once more, whither did he wish to return? I hate Rousseau, even in the Revolution itself: the latter was the historical expression of this hybrid of idealist and canaille. The bloody farce which this Revolution ultimately became, its “immorality,” concerns me but slightly; what I loathe however is its Rousseauesque morality—the so-called “truths” of the Revolution, by means of which it still exercises power and draws all flat and mediocre things over to its side. The doctrine of equality! ... But there is no more deadly poison than this; for it seems to proceed from the very lips of justice, whereas in reality it draws the curtain[Pg 109] down on all justice.... “To equals equality, to unequals inequality”—that would be the real speech of justice and that which follows from it “Never make unequal things equal.” The fact that so much horror and blood are associated with this doctrine of equality, has lent this “modern idea” par excellence such a halo of fire and glory, that the Revolution as a drama has misled even the most noble minds.—That after all is no reason for honouring it the more.—I can see only one who regarded it as it should be regarded—that is to say, with loathing; I speak of Goethe.

In families, triggers and projections enmesh, and the jumbled wires of habitual perception often become nearly impossible to disentangle. Something happens within a family, a kind of karmic claustrophobia, a hybrid of true love and tangled irritation. Sometimes it’s even hard for mindfulness to operate in the realm of family, much less for compassion to swoop in and save the day. Mindfulness is based on a simple but difficult premise: that you can directly witness what is arising in your own mind. Mindfulness presupposes that, upon reflection, you can note your reactivity to a sense perception or impulse, either during its immediate arising or after the fact.

By the early 1900s, the remaining beleaguered red wolves interbred on a large scale with coyotes in the extreme southwestern portions of their range in central Texas and the Ozarks. These interspecies couplings were the metaphorical last gasp of their survival instinct. Some researchers think that it was only after red wolves had been largely eliminated from their historic range that coyotes crept eastward and claimed the transformed landscape, now empty of wolves, for their own. Coyotes proved much more resilient and adaptable by living near farms and even within towns and cities. In short, they tolerated and even thrived in close proximity to people, a habit that red wolves simply never acquired. By the time scientists noticed, there were nearly as many, if not more, red wolf-coyote hybrids on the landscape than there were pure red wolves. Yet, a few red wolves remained. They held the physical characteristics of the species, as far as we are able to determine them to have been. These animals retreated to the swamps and no-man’s-lands of far southeastern Texas and southwestern Louisiana. The last of their kind, they were pushed up against the Gulf of Mexico in coastal habitat too bug- and tick-laced for people to desire. Enough survived to give the species a new start, with the guiding hands of humans and science. But the rest - nearly a quarter or a continent’s worth of wolves and their pups - were lost to poisons, wolf hounds, traps, bullets, and dynamite. It’s mind-boggling to imagine how a large mammal that was once so widespread could be lost to near extinction in such a short time.

Self love is not as difficult a discovery as some folks will conjecture. Muting the ego's clamourous influence over the conscience. This could be the support 'self' needs to begin-to-understand' that a Divine Creator had them in mind before building their flesh brain around the soul's spirit body, purely out of a love that pre-existed prior to that of ones existence. That love was magnificently demonstrated in the hybrid spirit-to-flesh-body-back to Spiritual Saviour who purpose in introduction, activity and prophetic discourse documentation, rejection turned persecution, crucifixion and Divine Spirit Resurrection to regain proper origin in (complete soul) relationship back to each living human being. Love went through all of that to restore us back to Supreme of absolute Love. To accept that truth brings light thru revelation which guides the spirit of oneself to change thoughts from dark external influences that make us not love ourselves. How can you sp easily reject yourself against the the existence of a Love Creator that "loved" you into life, and paid an extreme price with His hybrid life to powerfully save yours back to him, from which you came. Don't get lost in the deep details. Get LOVED!

Women continued to be criticized for wondering about the wrong sorts of things, and were still considered unfit for the new method of inquiry. And the curious women whose smarts men couldn't deny faced the disturbing likelihood that they would become scientific curiousities themselves. Medical doctors at the time were persuaded by Galen's theory that women were colder than men and had slower thoughts. Women who had quick thoughts must not be female but rather hybrids they termed freaks of nature. When Astell wrote that learned women were "star'd upon as Monsters, Censur'd, Envy'd, and every way Discourag'd," she was being literal.

Generations of frontal lobes, working in close collaboration, have created culture, which got us from dug-out canoes, horse-drawn carriages, and letters to jet planes, hybrid cars, and email. They also gave us Noam's lifesaving trampoline.

Generations of frontal lobes, working in close collaboration, have created culture, which got us from dug-out canoes, horse-drawn carriages, and letters to jet planes, hybrid cars, and e-mail. They also gave us Noam's lifesaving trampoline.

This idea of the interface as a material region in which two substances can mix together to produce a completely new hybrid body, can serve as the starting point for rethinking more generally our relationship to the matter around us. If all the bodies we enter into relations with are modified and modify us in turn, then we can no longer delude ourselves that matter is simply a passive object onto which we project our knowledge. But neither can we take refuge in the convenient idea that we can never have any knowledge of that which is not human—that the matter around us is, ultimately, completely alien and unknowable, and that it really has nothing to do with us. Inhabiting the interface affords us the opportunity to redefine our knowledge of matter as a creative and collaborative process in which every material actively participates. Every time we enter into a relationship with a new material, we construct a physical space of mutual interaction which modifies the world around us and opens us to the possibility of modifying ourselves in turn.

In Romans 11:34 God becomes terrifying: “For who has known the mind of the Lord, or who has been his counselor?” The answer is nobody. We find this aspect of God’s sovereignty terrifying. More often than not, we want him to have fairy wings and spread fairy dust and shine like a precious little star, dispensing nothing but good times on everyone, like some kind of hybrid of Tinker Bell and Aladdin’s Genie. But the God of the Bible, this God of Abraham and Isaac and Jacob, is a pillar of fire and a column of smoke. His glory is blinding. It undoes people. It takes people out. “It is a fearful thing to fall into the hands of the living God” (Heb. 10:31).

Josh Miller, 22 years old. He is co-founder of Branch, a “platform for chatting online as if you were sitting around the table after dinner.” Miller works at Betaworks, a hybrid company encapsulating a co-working space, an incubator and a venture capital fund, headquartered on 13th Street in the heart of the Meatpacking District. This kid in T-shirt and Bermuda shorts, and a potential star of the 2.0 version of Sex and the City, is super-excited by his new life as a digital neo-entrepreneur. He dropped out of Princeton in the summer of 2011 a year before getting his degree—heresy for the almost 30,000 students who annually apply to the prestigious Ivy League school in the hope of being among the 9% of applicants accepted. What made him decide to take such a big step? An internship in the summer of 2011 at Meetup, the community site for those who organize meetings in the flesh for like-minded people. His leader, Scott Heiferman, took him to one of the monthly meetings of New York Tech Meetup and it was there that Miller saw the light. “It was the coolest thing that ever happened to me,” he remembers. “All those people with such incredible energy. It was nothing like the sheltered atmosphere of Princeton.” The next step was to take part in a seminar on startups where the idea for Branch came to him. He found two partners –students at NYU who could design a website. Heartened by having won a contest for Internet projects, Miller dropped out of Princeton. “My parents told me I was crazy but I think they understood because they had also made unconventional choices when they were kids,” says Miller. “My father, who is now a lawyer, played drums when he was at college, and he and my mother, who left home at 16, traveled around Europe for a year. I want to be a part of the new creative class that is pushing the boundaries farther. I want to contribute to making online discussion important again. Today there is nothing but the soliloquy of bloggers or rude anonymous comments.” The idea, something like a public group email exchange where one can contribute by invitation only, interested Twitter cofounder Biz Stone and other California investors who invited Miller and his team to move to San Francisco, financing them with a two million dollar investment. After only four months in California, Branch returned to New York, where it now employs a dozen or so people. “San Francisco was beautiful and I learned a lot from Biz and my other mentors, but there’s much more adrenaline here,” explains Miller, who is from California, born and raised in Santa Monica. “Life is more varied here and creating a technological startup is something new, unlike in San Francisco or Silicon Valley where everyone’s doing it: it grabs you like a drug. Besides New York is the media capital and we’re an online publishing organization so it’s only right to be here.”[52]

I grieved time perceived lost. In my mind, I was robbed of thousands of memories, but I loved and cherished each and every one I conjured with a passion I’ve yet to process. (Light Over Dark Water)

Your people,” Robert Suydam began. “Your people are forced to live in mazes of hybrid squalor. It’s all sound and filth and spiritual putrescence.” If anything could pull Tommy Tester’s attention from the door it would be this. He turned to Robert Suydam expecting to find the man sneering, but the man had one hand on his belly, patting it gently. He looked up and to the right, like a man trying to remember a speech. “Policemen despair of order or reform and seek rather to erect barriers protecting the outside world from the contagion,” he continued. Tommy held the neck of the guitar tightly. “You talking about Harlem?” The spell broke. “What?” Suydam said. “Oh damn you! Why did you interrupt?” “I’m trying to understand what in the hell place you’re talking about. It doesn’t sound like anywhere I’ve ever lived.” No applause for honesty this time. “Mind your tone,” Suydam said. He covered the money with one hand. “You haven’t been paid yet.” This motherfucker, Tommy Tester thought and took one step closer to the old man. Even Robert Suydam, for all his authority, sensed a change in the room. For a moment he looked like a man who realized a meteorite was about to crash into his planet. He raised an open hand, a gesture of peace.

neither, but what else would you expect? He was a God-fearing man. He’d never done nothing to his wives or children that wasn’t right, wasn’t part of his duties. He always had the Lord’s approval before he ever laid a hand on any of them. If that little twat had listened to him, obeyed him, learned from him, she would’ve been a better woman, a better mother and wife. She would’ve had the chance to meet the Lord Jesus Christ in person in the Latter Days. She gave all that up. Why would any woman of sound mind give up that chance? He crept downstairs and hid by the fancy draperies hanging from the picture window in the living room. Sliding between the wall and a drape,