Logos Rising Quotes

The test of a progressive policy is not private but public, not just rising income and consumption for individuals, but widening the opportunities and what Amartya Sen calls the 'capabilities' of all through collective action. But that means, it must mean, public non-profit initiative, even if only in redistributing private accumulation. Public decisions aimed at collective social improvement from which all human lives should gain. That is the basis of progressive policy—not maximising economic growth and personal incomes. Nowhere will this be more important than in tackling the greatest problem facing us this century, the environmental crisis. Whatever ideological logo we choose for it, it will mean a major shift away from the free market and towards public action, a bigger shift than the British government has yet envisaged. And, given the acuteness of the economic crisis, probably a fairly rapid shift. Time is not on our side.

Precision Shipping." Shahara read the logo off the side of the station. "Nice name." "Thanks. Our motto is 'Be happy with our service or we'll kill you'." - Shahara & Syn

Faded like morning fog in the rising sun, sports team logo on a cheap T-shirt, ninety-nine dollar paint job on a Chevy.

For the alchemists Paradise was a favourite symbol of the albedo40 the regained state of innocence, and the source of its rivers is a symbol of the aqua permanens.41 For the Church Fathers Christ is this source,42 and Paradise means the ground of the soul from which the fourfold river of the Logos bubbles forth.43 We find the same symbol in the alchemist and mystic John Pordage: divine Wisdom is a “New Earth, the heavenly Land. … For from this Earth grew all the Trees of Life. … Thus did Paradise … rise up from the Heart and Centre of this New Earth, and thus did the lost Garden of Eden flourish in greenness.”44

Dionysius the Areopagite points out that God—as the creative source of form and matter—does not exist. God is not an existing being amongst other existing beings. Hence, pure existence and pure matter do not exist, as both arise from, and are dependent upon, God. What exists is the actualized combination of timeless intellective forms partially, particularly, and uniquely expressed within space, time, matter, and energy. The mystery of the incarnation, then, is that God embodies Godself as a particular man in space and time, becoming a being amongst beings. St. John is suitably staggered that the very Reason (Logos) that gives rise to both form and matter in the material cosmos, would become concrete and particular flesh. This is truly the stunning mystery at the heart of Christianity.

Having completed that emotional collapse, I next bounce off a little vision-quest right as the steady drumbeat accelerates into the Fearing Time: desert monuments rising over the mesquite in mysterious history, edges where trails run out, coyote holes playing tricks on my feet, where the trickster loiters and dissipates. I then repeat the depressive cycles a second night under the overpass of a night-time highway, then a third night in the neon passages of the Great Horned Owl – before finally LogoCorp rescues me, putting me back together again Humpty Dumpty-like.

I sign in on the form and hand the clipboard back to the volunteer manning the desk. The young man’s brows rise in recognition of my name. “Mr. Pierce!” He stands from his seat and sticks out his hand to shake mine. “I didn’t expect it would be you representing Pierce Industries. I thought you’d send someone.” I shake his hand, out of politeness, then force a stiff smile. “Surprise.” God, I hate small talk. Especially from this twenty-two year old ass-kisser who likely hopes this interaction will earn him employment at my company. I’m afraid it’s not that easy to even get an interview. He lowers his focus to the nametags on the table, searching for the one with the Pierce Industries logo. He hands it to me, and I pocket it. I refuse to wear it. I’m easily enough recognized without advertising it. The man—nothing more than a boy, really—seems disappointed. Whether it’s because I’m not as charismatic or charming as he’d imagined or because I dismissed the damn nametag, I can’t be certain. Frankly, I don’t give a shit. Once upon a time, his emotions would have elicited more interest from me. Now, they’re barely a blip on my radar. I’ll never understand them. No point in wasting my time trying. His smile

Then, on a left-hand curve 2.8 kilometres from the finish line, Marco delivers another cutting acceleration. Tonkov is immediately out of the saddle. The gap reaches two lengths. Tonkov fights his way back and is on Marco’s wheel when Marco, who is still standing on the pedals, accelerates again. Suddenly Tonkov is no longer there. Afterwards Tonkov would say he could no longer feel his hands and feet. ‘I had to stop. I lost his slipstream. I couldn’t go on.’ Marco told Romano Cenni he could taste blood. His performance on Montecampione was close to self-mutilation. Seven hundred metres from the finish line, the TV camera on the inside of the final right-hand bend, looking down the hill, picks Marco up over two hundred metres from the line and follows him for fifty metres, a fifteen-second close-up, grainy, pallid in the late-afternoon light. A car and motorbike, diffused and ghostlike, pass between the camera and Marco, emerging out of the gloom. The image cuts to another camera, tight on him as he swings round into the finishing straight, a five-second flash before the live, wide shot of the stage finish: Marco, framed between ecstatic fans on either side, and the finish-line scaffolding adorned with race sponsors‘ logos; largest, and centrally, the Gazzetta dello Sport, surrounded by branding for iced tea, shower gel, telephone services. Then we see it again in the super-slow-motion replay; the five seconds between the moment Marco appeared in the closing straight and the moment he crossed the finish line are extruded to fifteen strung-out seconds. The image frames his head and little else, revealing details invisible in real time and at standard resolution: a drop of sweat that falls from his chin as he makes the bend, the gaping jaw and crumpled forehead and lines beneath the eyes that deepen as Marco wrings still more speed from the mountain. As he rides towards victory in the Giro d‘Italia, Marco pushes himself so deeply into the pain of physical exertion that the gaucheness he has always shown before the camera dissolves, and — this must be the instant he crosses the line — he begins to rise out of his agony. The torso lifts to vertical, the arms spread out into a crucifix position, the eyelids descend, and Marco‘s face, altered by the darkness he has seen in his apnoea, lifts towards the light.

wired and had an ill-at-ease feeling and he wanted it gone. Dan knew one more way to get rid of it. He opened the chest of drawers and pulled out a few pieces from his old training kit. A pair of black shorts, and one of his running tops with the logo peeling way. He pulled them on and considered the cold outside but looking for gloves was too much aggravation. He went out, shivering in the pre-morning cold, his hands freezing in the breeze from the Thames Estuary. He ran down to the seafront, his badly aching legs easing into a running stride by the time he reached the concrete sea wall. The first hint of the fiery sun showed in the distance over the estuary mouth., a monster slowly rising from the sea. One mile down, his lungs heaving, heart thumping, Dan was finally warming up. But the angst wouldn’t let go. How far did he need to go to get rid of these demons? Running was good like that. It was like bleach for the mind. When he was three miles into the run his body stopped complaining. By now a third of the

Maybe the answer isn’t trying to get there by inches. Maybe the answer isn’t HR wheedling employees into changes they’re told are easy. Maybe the real opportunity is to say: We’re going to try something crazy difficult, something really intense. Everybody who steps up to do it is going to feel like they’re about to die, albeit for fifteen minutes, twenty minutes, tops. Strong people and not-so-strong people will see one another’s heroic efforts. And in the end, we’ll be more than faster, more powerful, harder to kill, and generally more useful.7 We’ll be a group of people that knows it can do crazy difficult things. Reebok’s CrossFit logo is a big equilateral triangle pointing up—the Greek letter delta, the mathematical symbol for change. If the wellness nudgers can’t save us, if comfortable solutions won’t make us strong again, maybe intensity—the willingness to get comfortable with discomfort—is the only thing that will really make a difference.

The more I learned about Pierce, the more curious I was about him. He flew around the world promoting crypto in a Gulfstream jet that he had spray painted with Monopoly money and the Bitcoin and Ethereum logos. He had mounted a vanity presidential campaign in 2020 with the singer Akon as his chief strategist. He wore loud hats, vests, and bracelets, like Johnny Depp in Pirates of the Caribbean, and spoke in riddles like Johnny Depp in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. He had a tattoo of a scorpion on his right shoulder. He was, of course, a regular at Burning Man.

That company was Apple Computer. Their logo, the apple with a bite taken out of it, certainly could be interpreted as representing man eating the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge and advancing towards godhood on Earth.

I sat in my room, glumly putting on a pair of khaki pants and a button-down KI-logo shirt.

As NeXT began to struggle, even as Jobs’s star was rising, several employees at NeXT, as well as executives from Compaq and Dell, approached Jobs with an idea: get out of hardware. NeXT’s software was excellent. Its graphical interface and programming tools were more elegant and powerful than Microsoft’s DOS and early Windows. Jobs could offer PC makers an alternative to Microsoft, which they desperately wanted. In return, the PC makers could offer NeXT something it desperately needed: a future. The idea of switching from hardware to software was a classic S-type loonshot. Jobs had risen to fame selling hardware. Bigger, faster, more, every year. The stars of the day—IBM, DEC, Compaq, Dell—sold shiny machines stamped with their famous logos. Everyone knew there was no money to be made in software; the money was in hardware.

The guys had made log benches for spectators, back when they were twelve and had visions of every girl in class lining those benches, swooning as they showed off in the ring. Never quite worked out that way--if there were spectators, they were more likely to be heckling than swooning--but the memory made me smile as I lowered myself quietly onto the bench behind Daniel. He was shadowboxing, throwing punches and dodging an imaginary opponent. He was dressed in his usual gear--sweatpants and a tank top, both emblazoned with the school logo. I sat there and watched him, muscles flexing, sweat dripping from his dark blond hair, spraying with every swing, the silence punctuated by soft grunts when a blow seemed right and frustrated snorts when it didn’t. As I watched him, I started to relax. This was familiar. The sight, the sounds, the feel of the bench under my fingers, even the faint smell of perspiration--it was familiar and it was real and it made the last few hours drift away, wisps of a nightmare disconnected from reality. Finally, he sensed me there and danced in a circle, fists falling to his sides, feet still moving. His face lit up in a grin so big it chased away the last of my worries.

That we live a sponsored life is now a truism and it's a pretty safe bet that as spending on advertising continues to rise, we roaches will be treated to even more of these ingenious gimmicks, making it ever more difficult and more seemingly pointless to muster even an ounce of outrage.

We took the truck. Corey’s mom’s SUV would have been more comfortable, but also extremely recognizable with the police logo. Not that it mattered, since we were already being tracked, but I could hardly say that. Daniel drove. I rode shotgun. I’d tried to get Sam to take that spot, so her leg would be more comfortable. She’d refused. We opened the window into the topper, though, so we could talk, and left the curtains open. We took the worst of the back roads. Again, that wasn’t necessary. Again, I couldn’t say so.