I Love Deadlines Quotes

I love deadlines. I love the whooshing noise they make as they go by.

I love deadlines. I like the whooshing sound they make as they fly by.

Love, in the universal sense, is unconditional acceptance. In the individual sense, the one-on-one sense, try this: we can say we love each other if my life is better because you're in it and your life is better because I'm in it. The intensity of the love is weighted by how much better.

...we can say we love each other if my life is better because you're in it and your life is better because I'm in it.

I will love you. Without requisite or deadline, I will love you.

But why must everything have a practical application? I'd been such a diligent soldier for years - working, producing, never missing a deadline, taking care of my loved ones, my gums and my credit record, voting, etc. Is this lifetime supposed to be only about duty? In this dark period of loss, did I need any justification for learning Italian other than that it was the only thing I could imagine bringing me any pleasure right now?

It was just a lie that seemed real. It was a promise that was never meant to be true. The forever that had a deadline. It felt like falling in love, but it was falling in a heartbreak café!

Time passes and I am still not through it. Grief isn't something you get over. You live with it. You go on on with it lodged in you. Sometimes I feel like I have swallowed a pile of stones. Grief makes me heavy. It makes me slow. Even on days when I laugh a lot, or dance, or finish a project, or meet a deadline, or celebrate, or make love, it is there. Lodged deep inside of me.

I love deadlines,” he said once. “I love the whooshing sound they make as they go by.”) He died in May 2001—too young. His

I think the reason why twentysomethings are so fixated on age is because we feel a pressure to be a certain way at 23, at 25, at 29. There are all of these invisible deadlines with our careers and with love and drinking and drugs. I can’t do coke at 25. I need to be in a LTR at 27. I can’t vomit from drinking at 26. I just can’t! We feel so much guilt for essentially acting our age and making mistakes. We’re obsessed with this idea of being domesticated and having our shit together. It’s kind of sad actually because I don’t think we ever fully get a chance to enjoy our youth. We’re so concerned about doing things "the right way" that we lose any sense of pleasure in doing things the wrong way. Youth may be truly wasted on the young.

Nick... I hope one day you find you a woman who loves you like my Melissa loved me. Whatever you do, boy, don't turn your back on her. If she says she needs you for something, don't matter how stupid it sounds or what deadline you got, you go to her and you do it. Screw work or whatever else. In the end, the only things that matter are the people in your life. The ones who make your life worth living and whose smiles light up your world. Don't ever push them aside for fair-weather friends. Everything else is just cheap window dressing that you can replace. But once them people are gone..." He winced. "You can't buy back time, Nick. Ever. It's the only thing in life you can't get more of, and it's the one thing that will mercilessly tear you up when it's gone. It takes pity on no soul and no heart. And all those fools who tell you it gets easier in time are lying dumb-asses. Losing someone you really love don't never get easier. You just go a few hours longer without breaking down. That's all... that's all. - Bubba

Love, in the universal sense, is unconditional acceptance. In the individual sense, the one-on-one sense, try this: we can say we love each other if my life is better because you're in it and your life is better because I'm in it. The intensity of love is weighed by how much better." -Deadline

But why must everything always have a practical application? I'd been such a diligent soldier for years - working, producing, never missing a deadline, taking care of my loved ones, my gums and my credit record, voting, etc. Is this lifetime supposed to be only about duty?

Boo-hoo," said Dr Abbey. "Let me know when you people want to grow a pair and join the scientific community. We're looking for answers. We'd love access to your lab equipment." "You mean join the mad scientists," spat Kelly, guilt turning into anger in an instant. "You say potato, I say pass the jumper cables," said Dr Abbey.

Science doesn’t work like that. It doesn’t do deadlines or consolation trophies. You can design the perfect study, sleep one hour a night, feed on nothing but despair and Lean Cuisine for months on end, and your results can still be the opposite of what you were hoping to find. Science doesn’t give a shit. Science is reliable in its variability. Science does whatever the fuck it wants. God, I love science.

i started trying to think what the best advice i'd been given over the years was. and it came from stephen king twenty years ago, at the height of the success of sandman. i was writing a comic that people loved and were taking seriously. king liked sandman and my novel with terry pratchett, good omens, and he saw the madness, the long singing lines, all that, and his advice was this: 'this is really great. you should enjoy it.' and i didn't. best advice i got that i ignored. instead i worried about it. i worried about the next deadline, the next idea, the next story. there wasn't a moment for the next fourteen or fifteen years that i wasn't writing something in my head, or wondering about it. and i didn't stop and look around and go, this is really fun.

We can draw no deadlines for God. He hastens or He delays as he sees fit. And his timing is all-loving toward his children. On, that we might learn to be patient in the hour of darkness. I don't mean that we make peace with darkness. We fight for joy. But we fight as those who are saved by grace and held by Christ. We say...that our night will soon- in God's good timing- turn to day.

I love deadlines. I like the whooshing sound they make as they fly by.’ Douglas Adams, author of The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy

I love deadlines. I love the whooshing noise they make as they go by.” ― Douglas Adams, The Salmon of Doubt

I love deadlines,” he has said. “I love the whooshing noise they make as they go by.

I love deadlines. I love the whooshing noise they make as they go by.” ― Douglas Adams, The Salmon of Doubt

I love deadlines. I like the whooshing sound they make as they fly by." --Douglas Adams

(“I love deadlines,” he said once. “I love the whooshing sound they make as they go by.”)

I love deadlines. I love the whooshing noise they make as they go by.” ― Douglas Adams, The Salmon of Doubt

I love deadlines. I love the whooshing sound they make as they fly past.' Douglas Adams

I love deadlines,” he said once. “I love the whooshing sound they make as they go by.

I love deadlines. I love the whooshing noise they make as they go by.

At the point where he, today's Ivan Ilyich, began to emerge, all the pleasures that had seemed so real melted away now before his eyes and turned into something trivial and often disgusting. And the further he was from childhood, the nearer he got to the present day, the more trivial and dubious his pleasures appeared. It started with law school. That had retained a little something that was really good: there was fun, there was friendship, there was hope. But in the last years the good times had become more exceptional. Then, at the beginning of his service with the governor, some good times came again: memories of making love to a woman. Then it became all confused, and the good times were not so many. After that there were fewer still; the further he went the fewer there were. Marriage. . .an accident and such a disappointment, and his wife's bad breath, and all that sensuality and hypocrisy! And the deadlines of his working life, and those money worries, going on for a year, two years, ten, twenty - always the same old story. And the longer it went on the deadlier it became. 'It's as if I had been going downhill when I thought I was going uphill. That's how it was. In society's opinion I was heading uphill, but in equal measure life was slipping away from me...And now it's all over. Nothing left but to die!

Now I know that there’s no such thing as the truth. That people are constantly misquoted. That news organizations are full of conspiracy (and that, in any case, ineptness is a kind of conspiracy). That emotional detachment and cynicism get you only so far. But for many years I was in love with journalism. I loved the city room. I loved the pack. I loved smoking and drinking scotch and playing dollar poker. I didn’t know much about anything, and I was in a profession where you didn’t have to. I loved the speed. I loved the deadlines. I loved that you wrapped the fish. You can’t make this stuff up, I used to say.

I do not write every day. I write to the questions and issues before me. I write to deadlines. I write out of my passions. And I write to make peace with my own contradictory nature. For me, writing is a spiritual practice. A small bowl of water sits on my desk, a reminder that even if nothing is happening on the page, something is happening in the room--evaporation. And I always light a candle when I begin to write, a reminder that I have now entered another realm, call it the realm of the Spirit. I am mindful that when one writes, one leaves this world and enters another. My books are collages made from journals, research, and personal experience. I love the images rendered in journal entries, the immediacy that is captured on the page, the handwritten notes. I love the depth of ideas and perspective that research brings to a story, be it biological or anthropological studies or the insights brought to the page by the scholarly work of art historians. When I go into a library, I feel like I am a sleuth looking to solve a mystery. I am completely inspired by the pursuit of knowledge through various references. I read newpapers voraciously. I love what newspapers say about contemporary culture. And then you go back to your own perceptions, your own words, and weigh them against all you have brought together. I am interested in the kaleidoscope of ideas, how you bring many strands of thought into a book and weave them together as one piece of coherent fabric, while at the same time trying to create beautiful language in the service of the story. This is the blood work of the writer. Writing is also about a life engaged. And so, for me, community work, working in the schools or with grassroots conservation organizations is another critical component of my life as a writer. I cannot separate the writing life from a spiritual life, from a life as a teacher or activist or my life intertwined with family and the responsibilities we carry within our own homes. Writing is daring to feel what nurtures and breaks our hearts. Bearing witness is its own form of advocacy. It is a dance with pain and beauty.

There was something about the possession of a book that was important to me. Owning it gave me proprietary rights on the story. It meant that I could read as quickly or as slowly as I liked. No expectations, no deadlines, no proscriptions on bent spines or crumpled pages. I was not gentle on my books. I read while I ate, I read in the bathtub. At night, I rolled over on top of my books that had fallen between the covers as I dozed. For me, the worn pages and tattered covers were a sign of devotion. Like the Velveteen Rabbit, the books I read were only real when they were loved. And I understood that love was not always gentle.

I love you,baby.I will never tire of saying it,nor tire of you hearing it.I.Love.You.

THE URGENCY ADDICTION Some of us get so used to the adrenaline rush of handling crises that we become dependent on it for a sense of excitement and energy. How does urgency feel? Stressful? Pressured? Tense? Exhausting? Sure. But let’s be honest. It’s also sometimes exhilarating. We feel useful. We feel successful. We feel validated. And we get good at it. Whenever there’s trouble, we ride into town, pull out our six shooter, do the varmint in, blow the smoke off the gun barrel, and ride into the sunset like a hero. It brings instant results and instant gratification. We get a temporary high from solving urgent and important crises. Then when the importance isn’t there, the urgency fix is so powerful we are drawn to do anything urgent, just to stay in motion. People expect us to be busy, overworked. It’s become a status symbol in our society—if we’re busy, we’re important; if we’re not busy, we’re almost embarrassed to admit it. Busyness is where we get our security. It’s validating, popular, and pleasing. It’s also a good excuse for not dealing with the first things in our lives. “I’d love to spend quality time with you, but I have to work. There’s this deadline. It’s urgent. Of course you understand.” “I just don’t have time to exercise. I know it’s important, but there are so many pressing things right now. Maybe when things slow down a little.

Then don't give me a deadline. Let me do it in my own way." "As you have been until now, keeping every man at arm's length, scaring them away with your target shooting?" Gran shook her head. "You cannot fall in love if you do not let a man close. And you will not let a man close unless you have a reason. I know you. If I rescind that ultimatum, you will bury yourself on this estate and never come out.

I'm over it. All the little costs of having ADHD that add up in the long run. Lost customers. Overdue bills. Replacement phone chargers. Time spent looking for things. The way it makes me feel, like a child. As if everyone else is a real adult and I'm just pretending. The frustration that I can't do the simple, everyday things that most people can. Like laundry, and making phone calls, and remembering to take out something from the freezer for dinner. It's the missed deadlines for opportunities I could've had. The broken relationships. How people think I'm lazy and selfish. How they think I don't care. How I think I'm lazy and selfish, even though I know I care.

When I agreed to give this address, I started trying to think what the best advice I'd been given over the years was. And it came from Stephen King twenty years ago, at the height of the success of Sandman. I was writing a comic that people loved and were taking seriously. King had like Sandman and my novel with Terry Pratchett, Good Omens, and he saw a madness, the long signing lines, all that, and his advice was this: "This is really great. You should enjoy it." And I didn't. Best advice I got that I ignored. Instead I worried about it. I worried about the next deadline, the next idea, the next story. There wasn't a moment for the next fourteen or fifteen years that I wasn't writing something in my head, or wondering about it. And I didn't stop and look around and go, This is really fun. I wish I'd enjoyed it more. It's been an amazing ride. But there were parts of the ride I missed, because I was too worried about things going wrong, about what came next, to enjoy the bit I was on. That was the hardest lesson for me, I think: to let go and enjoy the ride, because the ride takes you to some remarkable and unexpected places.

I never expect appreciation. I always set a deadline for the things I have to do to be a successful person, when I complete them, I give myself a piece of candy, a glass of tea and some free time to enjoy- that is how I honor my hardworking and appreciate my struggles.

MURRY: It's not that, it's just… I don't really get it. I usually find myself staring at the midnight deadline filled with regrets both for opportunities and loved ones missed. It's another day closer to the end. The last thing I feel like doing is counting down to some wild celebration. It just seems so sad to say goodbye to a year and know that it’s gone forever and you can’t go back to it. Not to relive, not to correct. NOEL: I've never thought about it that way. MURRY: There's something so final about it. It's the period at the end of the sentence. NOEL: The New Year's resolution.

...we were doing this...this weird circling thing, like we needed to figure out every single line of the script before we could even start the movie. I knew, and he knew, and we didn’t do a damn thing about it... It’s like we thought everything had to be perfect, or it wouldn’t work. Like it was a story.

I forget so easily that there’s a bigger picture. I’m easily seduced by the bustle of the day—lunch and laundry, deadlines and dinnertime. I forget that it’s all held together by a holy, loving God, and that we get to be his partners in restoration and healing. I forget that there’s more than I see, more than I can dream.

Nobody tells people who are beginners. I really wish someone had told this to me. Is that [if you are watching this video, you are somebody who wants o make videos right?] all of us who do creative work, we get into it. we get into it because we have good taste. you know what I mean? like you want to make TV, because you love TV. there is stuff you just like, love. ok so you got really good taste. you get into this thing … that i don’t even know how to describe it, but there is a gap. for the first couple of years you are making stuff, what you are making isn’t so good... ok, its not that great. it's really not that great. its trying to be good, it has ambition to be good, but not quite that good. but your taste, the thing get you into the game, your taste is still killer. your taste is good enough that you can tell what you are making is a kind of disappointment to you, you know what i mean? you can tell it is still sort of crappy. a lot of people never get past that phase. a lot of people at that point, they quit. the thing i would just like say to you with all my heart is that most everybody I know, who does interesting creative work, they went through a phase of years where they had really good taste, they could tell what they were making wasn’t as good as they wanted it to be. they knew it felt short. [some of us can admit that to ourselves, some of us less able to admit that to ourselves] we knew like, it didn’t have that special thing that we wanted it to have. [...] everybody goes through that. for you to go through it, if you are going through right now, just getting out of that phase, if you are just starting out and entering into that phase, you gotta know it is totally normal and the most important possible thing you can do is do a lot of work. do a huge volume of work. put yourself on a deadline so that every week or every month you know you’re gonna finish one story. you know what i mean? whatever its gonna be. you create the deadline. it is best if have somebody who is waiting work from you, expecting work from you. even if not somebody who pays you, but that you are in a situation where you have to turn out the work. because it is only by actually going through a volume of work that you are actually going to catch up and close that gap and the work you are making will be as good as your ambitions.

Douglas Adams did not enjoy writing, and he enjoyed it less as time went on. He was a bestselling, acclaimed, and much-loved novelist who had not set out to be a novelist, and who took little joy in the process of crafting novels. He loved talking to audiences. He liked writing screenplays. He liked being at the cutting edge of technology and inventing and explaining with an enthusiasm that was uniquely his own. Douglas’s ability to miss deadlines became legendary. (“I love deadlines,” he said once. “I love the whooshing sound they make as they go by.”) He died in May 2001—too young. His death surprised us all, and left a huge, Douglas Adams–sized hole in the world. We had lost both the man (tall, affable, smiling gently at a world that baffled and delighted him) and the mind.

I saw you through your dreams- and I hoarded the images, sorting through them over and over again, trying to place where you you were, who you were. But you had such horrible nightmares, and the creatures belonged to all courts. I'd wake up with your scent in my nose, and it would haunt me all day, every step. But then one night, you dreamed of standing amongst green hills, seeing unlit bonfires for Calanmai.' There was such silence in my head. 'I knew there was only one celebration that large; I knew those hills- and I knew you'd probably be there. So I told Amarantha...' Rhys swallowed. 'I told her that I wanted to go to the Spring Court for the celebration, to spy on Tamlin and see if anyone showed up wishing to conspire with him. We were so close to the deadline for the curse that she was paranoid- restless. She told me to bring back traitors. I promised her I would.' His eyes lifted to mine again. 'I got there, and I could smell you. So I tracked that scent, and... And there you were. Human- utterly human, and being dragged away by those piece-of-shit picts, who wanted to...' He shook his head. 'I debated slaughtering them then and there, but then they shoved you, and I just... moved. I started speaking without knowing what I was saying, only that you were there, and I was touching you, and...' He loosed a shuddering breath. There you are. I've been looking for you. His first words to me- not a lie at all, not a threat to keep those faeries away. Thank you for finding her for me. I had the vague feeling of the world slipping out from under my feet like sand washing away from the shore. 'You looked at me,' Rhys said, 'and I knew you had no idea who I was. That I might have seen your dreams, but you hadn't seen mine. And you were just... human. You were so young, and breakable, and had no interest in me whatsoever, and I knew that if I stayed too long, someone would see and report back, and she'd find you. So I started walking away, thinking you'd be glad to get rid of me. But then you called after me, like you couldn't let go of me just yet, whether you knew it or not. And I knew... I knew we were on dangerous ground, somehow. I knew that I could never speak to you, or see you, or think of you again. 'I didn't want to know why you were in Prythian; I didn't even want to know your name. Because seeing you in my dreams had been one thing, but in person... Right then, deep down, I think I knew what you were. And I didn't let myself admit it, because it there was the slightest chance that you were my mate... They would have done such unspeakable things to you, Feyre. 'So I let you walk away. I told myself after you were gone that maybe... maybe the Cauldron had been kind, and not cruel, for letting me see you. Just once. A gift for what I was enduring. And when you were gone, I found those three picts. I broke into their minds, reshaping their lives, their histories, and dragged them before Amarantha. I made them confess to conspiring to find other rebels that night. I made them lie and claim that they hated her. I watched her carve them up while they were still alive, protesting their innocence. I enjoyed it- because I knew what they had wanted to do to you. And knew that it would have paled in comparison to what Amarantha would have done if she'd found you.' I wrapped a hand around my throat. I had my reasons to be out there, he'd once said to me Under the Mountain. Do not think, Feyre, that it did not cost me.

In truth the memoir was a game of postponement – a trick he played on himself almost daily, and fell for every time. There would be a poor and evasive morning, with letters to write as well, and a number of phone calls that had to be made; then lunch, at a place not necessarily close, and several things to do after lunch, with mounting anxiety in the two hours before six o’clock: and then a drink, a glow of resolve and sensible postponement till the following morning, when, too hung-over to do much work before ten, he would seek infuriated refuge, about eleven forty-five, in the trying necessity of going out once more to lunch. Over lunch, at Caspar’s or at the Garrick, he would be asked how work was going, when it could be expected, and the confidence of the questioner severely inhibited his answers – they had a bottle of wine, no more, but still the atmosphere was appreciably softened, his little hints at difficulties were taken as mere modesty – ‘I’m sure it will be marvellous’ – ‘It will take as long as it takes’ – and he left fractionally consoled himself, as if some great humane reprieve were somehow possible, and time (as deadline after deadline loomed and fell away behind) were not an overriding question. In the evenings especially, and towards bedtime, half-drunk, he started seeing connexions, approaches, lovely ideas for the work, and sat suffused with a sense of the masterly thing it was in his power to do the next morning.

It was as if we had made something very simple incredibly complicated. Here were these bodies, ready to reproduce, controlled against reproduction, then stimulated for an eventual reproduction that was put on ice. My friends who wanted to prolong their fertility did so, now that they were in their thirties and professionally successful, because circumstances in their lives had not lined up as planned. They had excelled at their jobs. They had nice apartments and enough money to comfortably start a family, but they lacked a domestic companion who would provide the necessary genetic material, lifelong support, and love. They wanted to be the parents they had grown up under, but love couldn't be engineered, and ovaries could. Hanging over all of this was an idea of choice, an arbitrary linking of goals and outcomes, which reduced structural, economic and technological change to individual decision. "The right to choose"―the right to birth control and abortion services―is different from the idea of choice I mean here. I mean that the baby question justified a fiction that one had to conform one's life to a uniform box by a certain deadline. If the choice were only to have a baby or not, then anybody who wanted a baby and was physically able would simply have one (as many people did), but what I saw with my friends was that it wasn’t actually about the choice of having a baby but of setting up a nuclear family, which unfortunately could not, unlike making a baby, happen more or less by fiat.

His Burden Is Light Then Jesus said, “Come to me, all of you who are weary and carry heavy burdens, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you. Let me teach you, because I am humble and gentle, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke fits perfectly, and the burden I give you is light.” Matthew 11:28-30 What heavy burden is weighing you down and causing a heaviness and weariness in your spirit? Is it the need to take care of an elderly parent? a seemingly impossible deadline at work? juggling overwhelming responsibilities of a job plus parenting a houseful of kids? the burden of chronic illness? a difficult relationship with someone you love? financial struggles? Whatever your “heavy burden” might be, Jesus invites you, just as he did the crowds he was teaching: Come to me. Give me the heavy load you’re carrying. And in exchange, I will give you rest. Whenever I read these verses from Matthew, I breathe a sigh of relief. Jesus knows the challenges and deadlines we face and the weariness of mind or body we feel. He understands the stress, tasks, and responsibilities that are weighing us down. As we lay all that concerns us before him, his purpose replaces our agenda, and his lightness and rest replace our burden. LORD, thank you for your offer to carry my burdens for me. I give them all to you and I gladly receive your rest! I place myself under your yoke to learn from you. Teach me your wisdom that is humble and pure, and help me to walk in the ways you set before me. Thank you for your mercy and love that invite me to live my life resting and trusting in you!   WHEN HE SAYS TO YOUR DISTURBED, DISTRACTED, RESTLESS SOUL OR MIND, “COME UNTO ME,” HE IS SAYING, COME OUT OF THE STRIFE AND DOUBT AND STRUGGLE OF WHAT IS AT THE MOMENT WHERE YOU STAND, INTO THAT WHICH WAS AND IS AND IS TO BE—THE ETERNAL, THE ESSENTIAL, THE ABSOLUTE. Phillips Brooks (1835-1893)    

Now, then,” he said, returning to the head of the table, “I think you should know that Gran’s original requirement is still in place. The four of you must marry or she will disinherit the lot of us. I’ve done my part. So I suggest that while Maria and I are in America, you four start looking for mates.” It took a second for that to sink in. Minerva exploded first. “That isn’t fair! Gran, I’m sure you’ll have your heir from Oliver and Maria in no time, given the hours they spend up there in the master bedchamber. Why in heaven’s name must you continue this farce?” “I asked her to continue it,” Oliver said. When his siblings gaped at him, he added, “Gran is right-it’s time that we take our place in the world as more than hellions. We’ve been sleepwalking too long, locked into the past, unable to live fruitful lives. Now that Maria has awakened me, I want to wake you up, too. I want you to stop boxing at shadows and hiding in the dark from the scandal of our parents’ deaths. I want you to find what I’ve found-love.” He gazed at Maria, who cast him an encouraging smile. They’d both agreed that this might be the only way to force his siblings awake. “Speak for yourself,” Minerva answered. “I’m perfectly fine. You’re just using that nonsense as an excuse for joining up with Gran to ruin our lives.” She glanced resentfully at Maria. “Is this the thanks we get for pushing him into your arms?” “Pushing me into her arms?” Oliver echoed. “All that making you jealous and keeping you from her-“ Gabe began. “And lying to you about her inheritance,” Jarret added. “Though that didn’t work out quite as planned.” “You wouldn’t even be together if not for us,” Celia said. “I suspect my wife would beg to differ,” Oliver drawled. “But that’s neither here nor there. Rail at me all you want, but Gran’s deadline is still in place. You have ten months to marry.” He cast them a thin smile. “Given how difficult that may prove, however, I’ve hired someone to help you.” He turned to the door. “Mr. Pinter? Would you step inside, please?” The Bow Street Runner walked in, looking uneasy at facing the entire cadre of scandalous Sharpes. “Mr. Pinter has agreed to help you by researching the backgrounds of your potential spouses. I know it can be difficult, especially for you girls, to sort the legitimate suitors from the fortune hunters.” He knew that firsthand. “So Mr. Pinter will investigate anyone who sparks your interest. That should make the entire process move more quickly.” “And cold-bloodedly,” Celia muttered under her breath. Pinter arched an eyebrow but said nothing.

Husserl had picked up this idea from his old teacher Franz Brentano, in Vienna days. In a fleeting paragraph of his book Psychology from an Empirical Standpoint, Brentano proposed that we approach the mind in terms of its ‘intentions’ — a misleading word, which sounds like it means deliberate purposes. Instead it meant a general reaching or stretching, from the Latin root in-tend, meaning to stretch towards or into something. For Brentano, this reaching towards objects is what our minds do all the time. Our thoughts are invariably of or about something, he wrote: in love, something is loved, in hatred, something is hated, in judgement, something is affirmed or denied. Even when I imagine an object that isn’t there, my mental structure is still one of ‘about-ness’ or ‘of-ness’. If I dream that a white rabbit runs past me checking its pocket watch, I am dreaming of my fantastical dream-rabbit. If I gaze up at the ceiling trying to make sense of the structure of consciousness, I am thinking about the structure of consciousness. Except in deepest sleep, my mind is always engaged in this aboutness: it has ‘intentionality’. Having taken the germ of this from Brentano, Husserl made it central to his whole philosophy. Just try it: if you attempt to sit for two minutes and think about nothing, you will probably get an inkling of why intentionality is so fundamental to human existence. The mind races around like a foraging squirrel in a park, grabbing in turn at a flashing phone screen, a distant mark on the wall, a clink of cups, a cloud that resembles a whale, a memory of something a friend said yesterday, a twinge in a knee, a pressing deadline, a vague expectation of nice weather later, a tick of the clock. Some Eastern meditation techniques aim to still this scurrying creature, but the extreme difficulty of this shows how unnatural it is to be mentally inert. Left to itself, the mind reaches out in all directions as long as it is awake — and even carries on doing it in the dreaming phase of its sleep. Understood in this way, the mind hardly is anything at all: it is its aboutness. This makes the human mind (and possibly some animal minds) different from any other naturally occurring entity. Nothing else can be as thoroughly about or of things as the mind is: even a book only reveals what it’s ‘about’ to someone who picks it up and peruses it, and is otherwise merely a storage device. But a mind that is experiencing nothing, imagining nothing, or speculating about nothing can hardly be said to be a mind at all.

I love deadlines. I like the whooshing sound they make as they fly by. ― Douglas Adams, The Salmon of Doubt

I didn't know if you were still living... in sin. I didn't want a bad influence in his life." I spoke past the growing lump in my throat. "I'm not a monster. Just because I naively fell in love with a semi-divorced man doesn't mean I would have harmed your son. Jesus! You'd think I spent most of my life on death row by the way you talk about me when I've never seen the inside of a jail. Unlike Warren Sr.!" To this day, I have no idea why I had to tack on that part about Marvina's deceased husband. It was petty, but seeing as we were already wallowing in the muddy puddles of our past, what difference did it make? "He wasn't a jailbird," Marvina spat back. "He only went in once for a ticket he didn't pay before the deadline." She opened the oven and slid the onion skins inside next to the peppers. "Don't I know this already. I hope the forty dollars of mine that you put toward his bail served the both of y'all well.

I love deadlines. I like the whooshing sound they make as they fly by. —Douglas Adams

Show me somebody who has never experienced love and I’ll show you what a real zombie looks like.

The only deadline that concerns me is the day that I die and whether or not I had loved enough while I was here.

But why must everything always have a practical application? I’d been such a diligent soldier for years—working, producing, never missing a deadline, taking care of my loved ones, my gums and my credit record, voting, etc. Is this lifetime supposed to be only about duty? In this dark period of loss, did I need any justification for learning Italian other than that it was the only thing I could imagine bringing me any pleasure right now? And it wasn’t that outrageous a goal, anyway, to want to study a language.

I love pressure, so deadlines don't scare me; bring it on!

Love in the universal sense, is unconditional acceptance. In the individual sense, the one on one sense, try this: we can say we love each other if my life is better because you're in it and your life is better because I'm in it. The intensity of that love is weighted by how much better.

am indebted to a host of professionals who have influenced my concepts of love. Among them are psychiatrists Ross Campbell and Judson Swihart. For editorial assistance, I am indebted to Debbie Barr, Cathy Peterson, and Betsey Newenhuyse. The technical expertise of Tricia Kube and Don Schmidt made it possible to meet publication deadlines. Last, and most important, I want to express my gratitude to the hundreds of couples who, over the years, have shared the intimate side of their lives with me. This

helping me. It’s a full-time job, and I am grateful for your concern for my reader friends. Of course, thanks to my daughter and sons, who pull together—bringing me iced green tea and understanding my sometimes crazy schedule. I love that you know you’re still first, before any deadline. Thank you to my mom, Anne Kingsbury, and to my sisters, Tricia and Sue. Mom, you are amazing as my assistant—working day and night sorting through the mail from my readers. I appreciate you more than you’ll ever know. Traveling together these past years for Extraordinary Women and Women of Joy events has given us times that we will always treasure. Now we will be at Women

He had a new stereo installed that’s pretty crisp, but I hate music in cars, so it doesn’t do me much good. The second he starts it up, Pigs in the Toaster, this emo band he loves for reasons I cannot fathom, blasts out of the speakers at a volume that should be illegal for whining set to guitar. The singer’s voice is screechy and the music is too disjointed to have a real beat. He doesn’t move to turn it down. Normally,

You’ll have all your appointments in your calendar, and other reminders in your Tickler file, but I still like having something physical in front of me to understand what the upcoming week will be like, as well as something to refer to when reviewing how the previous week went.   So I made a Weekly Planner. Everyone has appointments and deadlines for the week. You can write those out here, as well as weekly goals based on your “Projects” list in order to keep them moving forward.   It also has space for your MITs.     “Most

I love deadlines, I love the whooshing sound they make as they go by - The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy

But why must everything have a practical application? I'd been such a diligent soldier for years--working, producing, never missing a deadline, taking care of my loved ones, my gums, and my credit record, voting, etc. Is this lifetime supposed to only be about duty?

How to prepare your spirit and body for a nap. STARTING POINTS TO JUMP-START YOUR CURIOSITY AND EXPERIMENTATION: We cannot wait for the perfect space or opportunity to rest. Rest now. In Part One: Rest!, I share the need for seeing rest as not an extra treat that we must run to but more of a lifelong, consistent, and meticulous love practice. We must snatch rest. We must believe we are worthy of rest. We don’t have to earn it. It is our birthright. It is one of our most ancient and primal needs. Our bodies are a site of liberation; therefore, wherever our bodies are, we can embody rest. This second tenet of The Nap Ministry is a mantra and a meditation. Productivity should not look like exhaustion. The concept of laziness is a tool of the oppressor. A large part of your unraveling from capitalism will include becoming less attached to the idea of productivity and more committed to the idea of rest as a portal to just be. Your early understanding of “productivity” is most likely tainted by the toxic socialization we all received growing up. It must be examined. Deprogramming our minds and hearts from our toxic brainwashing around naps and rest will increase our ability to craft a rest practice. Our slumber and opportunities for community care will be deeper because of our work in this area. Go slow and realize you have been brainwashed by a system that attaches your inherent worth to how much you can labor and produce. Grind culture is violence. Resist participating in it. This must be flexible so please also resist the desire to become rigid. I have gone months consistently experimenting with a rest practice daily or weekly. The next week I am caught up in an all-nighter to finish a deadline. We are moving in and out of worlds all the time so give beautiful grace to yourself. Start again

Most people, when asked about their goals, are not sure of their goals or cannot articulate them in a clearly defined manner. Part of my success in business has come from teaching my employees how to dream and identify their goals through a goal-setting exercise: Write down all the things you don’t want in life. Once you have nothing left to write, draw a line after the last thing you don’t want in life. Then, on a new sheet of paper, write the opposite of what you just wrote. For example, if you wrote, “I don’t want to be poor,” then on your new sheet of paper write, “I want to be rich.” If you wrote, “I don’t want to be alone,” then write the opposite, “I want to be in a relationship.” And so on: I don’t want to be sick—I want to be healthy. I don’t want to be stuck here forever—I want to travel and see new things. Once you have completed your opposite list, make a third list: “What can I start doing today?” This list is meant to bring specifics to each thing you do want in life. For example, “What can I do today that I enjoy and will make me wealthy?” Alternatively, “If I don’t want to be lonely, what kind of activities, work, and hobbies could I do today that would allow me to have a great social presence and love life?” Or, “If I want to be healthy, what sports or exercises would I enjoy that will impact my health positively?” Once you have created the “What Can I Do Today?” list, circle the top five sentences that inspire you the most and add a reasonable timeline to take action toward these goals. Then, circle the next five and so on until everything is circled with deadlines. Keep your final list accessible so that as you begin to take action, you can adjust your list’s details and timelines. Thinking about what you don’t want and about changing that into what you do want creates a foundation for building goals with real intent and action. It also trains you to live in positivity. This is more than positive thinking. Science supports goal setting.

I will love you. Without requisite or deadline, I will love you.

I want you, Alex.” He rests his forehead against mine. Our chests heave as our lungs try to take in as much oxygen as possible. “I want you so fucking much, I might crawl out of my skin if I don’t get to have you soon.” “I want you, too.” I press my lips against his, loving how desperate he is.

He takes my face between his palms. His eyes are filled with something that looks a lot like love before he says with a bashful grin, “You should get two minutes for tripping, ‘cause I’ve fallen for you.” And my heart melts because only Blaine could confess his feelings with a cheesy line. This perfect man, with the kindest heart. And I think I may have fallen too.

Imagine there is a fabulously wealthy king who looks out the window of his castle one day and, in the distance, sees a beautiful Cinderella-type peasant living in the slums. His heart is ravished and he thinks, “This is the  perfect bride for my son, the prince.” Unlike other kings—wicked worldly kings—he cannot just abduct her and make her a slave-concubine of his son. He must genuinely invite her to take the hand of his son voluntarily. So, along with his entourage and his son, they make their way out of the palace into the squalor beyond the moat, searching hut to hut and through the markets until they find her. The offer is made: “Young lady,” says the king, “this is my beloved son, the prince of this kingdom and heir to all that is mine. I humbly beseech you to come out of your life of poverty and oppression and to join my son in holy matrimony, enjoying all of the benefits that come with a princess’ life.” The offer seems to be too good to be true. All she needs to do is consent to the proposal. But there’s a hitch. The king continues, “There is a deadline. If you don’t say yes by such-and-such a date, we will arrest you, put you in our dungeon, where torturers will fillet you alive for endless ages, supernaturally keeping you alive such that your torment is never-ending. Moreover, after the deadline, your decision is irrevocable. No repentance is possible. The dishonor of your rejection is too great to warrant any second chance. The consequences of refusal are without mercy and utterly irreversible.”  As the king, the prince and their cohort leave, the prince turns and says, “Oh yes, please hurry. And always know that I will love you forever and for always … but only until the deadline.” Is this our gospel? If it were, would it truly be a gospel that preserves the love of God, the freewill of humanity and the mutual consent inherent in and necessary to God’s invitation? I don’t buy it any more. Without going into great detail here, might I suggest that because God, by nature, is the eternally consenting Bridegroom, there are two things he cannot and will not do: He will not ever make you marry his Son, because an irresistible grace would violate your consent. Your part will always and forever be by consent. His consent will never end, because a violent ultimatum would violate your consent. Divine love will always and forever be by consent. Emphasis on forever. “His mercy endures forever” (Psalm 136). “I have loved you with an everlasting love; I have drawn you with unfailing kindness” (Jer. 31:3). I don’t believe the divine courtship involves wearing you down with his love until you give up. It’s simply that he’ll always love you, with a love that even outlasts and overcomes death (Song of Solomon 8). The Bible at least hints (Rev. 21-22) that the prodigal Father will wait for you, invite you and keep the doors open for you until you’re ready to come home. He’ll wait for you forever. 

I’ve never bought into that “You Just Know” notion. Love is a tricky thing. Sometimes it feels like an undeniable force that hits between the eyes and doesn’t let up. Other times, it’s malleable, questionable. It’s truth hidden in and amongst external obstacles and internal circumstances that’ve formed who you are, what you expect in the world, and how you can accept love. Oh, to say the least, it’s complicated. And if a mind’s abuzz with pressure and deadlines and “What if this and that,” I imagine love’s truth would be a near-impossible thing to feel. I wonder if, when all’s quiet in your mind, you’ll find your answer. — Aunt Josephine

Derrick.. I hope one day you find you a woman who loves you like my shan loved me. Whatever you do, boy, don't turn your back on her. If she says she needs you for something, don't matter how stupid it sounds or what deadline you got, you go to her and you do it. Screw books or whatever else. In the end, the only things that matter are the people in your life. The ones who make your life worth living and whose smiles light up your world. Don't ever push them aside for fair-weather friends. Everything else is just cheap window dressing that you can replace. But once them people are gone. ..You can't buy back time, Derrick ever. It's the only thing in life you can't get more of, and it's the one thing that will mercilessly tear you up when it's gone. It takes pity on no soul and no heart. And all those fools who tell you it gets easier in time are lying dumb-asses. Losing someone you really love don't never get easier. You just go a few hours longer without breaking down. That's all... that's all bro

I do regular training calls in my coaching programs that involve me sharing specific insights. That’s a deadline. When people expect you to show up, you make things happen.

In early mornings when the alarm rings but my bones feel like bricks. 
In lunchboxes packed with love and leftovers .
In reports sent before the deadline, even when my mind is clouded with worry .
In boardrooms where I speak up even if my voice shakes. 
In hugs given with tired arms.
In “yes, baby?” when I want to say “not now.”
 That’s ministry.


I love deadlines. Specifically, the whooshing sound they make as they pass me by!

I adore every little thing about you, and I am so in love with you it hurts to be five feet away. You are the sun to my moon, the light to my darkness, and the love of my life.

I have just read back over this diary. In March I would never have believed that so much time could go by totally without progress. I have become desperate. My passion has taken over my consciousness. Hours of every day are devoted to Laura, to what has become fastidious concern over every detail of my dress and appearance, to the endless daydreaming, and to the search for ways to interest her in things that we might do together. Her image is everywhere I look. Everything I think of, no matter how remote, leads me back to thinking of her. The first thing I see when I wake up in the morning is her face, and she is in my thoughts whether or not she is in my presence. I have become determined to do something about this, but I do not know what to do. Other things scarcely exist for me anymore. I forgot to pick up the photographs I had ordered, and they were almost sent back to Paris. I am incapacitated. I like Laura, she is nice, but this extraordinary reaction of mine is entirely inappropriate. I have a kind of sinking feeling almost all the time and I welcome problems serious enough to distract me from this idiocy. My major feeling is not wanting to work on my dissertation, despite the approaching deadline. My stomach aches, and I feel sunk, depressed. If I could only be absolutely sure that she is not interested in me, I would have nothing to build hopes on, but when she is at all nice to me, I suffer.

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What is this book for?” asked Corso. The baroness put a finger to her lips like the knight in the first engraving. She was smiling. “Saint John of Patmos says that in the reign of the Second Beast, before the final, decisive battle of Armageddon, ‘only he who has the mark, the name of the Beast or the number of his name, will be able to buy and sell.’ Waiting for the hour to come, Luke (4:13) tells us at the end of his story about temptation that the devil, repudiated three times, ‘has withdrawn until the appropriate time.’ But the devil left several paths for the impatient, including the way to reach him, to make a pact with him.” “To sell him one’s soul.” Frieda Ungern giggled confidentially. Miss Marple with her cronies, engaged in gossip about the devil. You’ll never guess the latest about Satan. This, that, and the other. I don’t know where to start, Peggy my dear. “The devil learned his lesson,” she said. “He was young and naive, and he made mistakes. Souls escaped at the last minute through the false door, saving themselves for the sake of love, God’s mercy, and other specious promises. So he ended up including a nonnegotiable clause for the handing over of body and soul once the deadline had expired ‘without reserve of any right to redemption, or future recourse to God’s mercy.’ The clause is in fact to be found in this book.” “What a lousy world,” said Corso. “Even Lucifer has to resort to the small print.” “You must understand. Nowadays people will swindle you out of anything. Even their soul. His clients slip away and don’t comply with their contractual obligations. The devil’s fed up and he has every reason to be.

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