Nice Prediction Quotes

Someone needs to tell those tales. When the battles are fought and won and lost, when the pirates find their treasures and the dragons eat their foes for breakfast with a nice cup of Lapsang souchong, someone needs to tell their bits of overlapping narrative. There's magic in that. It's in the listener, and for each and every ear it will be different, and it will affect them in ways they can never predict. From the mundane to the profound. You may tell a tale that takes up residence in someone's soul, becomes their blood and self and purpose. That tale will move them and drive them and who knows what they might do because of it, because of your words. That is your role, your gift. Your sister may be able to see the future, but you yourself can shape it, boy. Do not forget that... there are many kinds of magic, after all.

Growing up is a trap," snapped Dr. Robbins. "When they tell you to shut up, they mean stop talking. When they tell you to grow up, they mean stop growing. Reach a nice level plateau and settle there, predictable and unchanging, no longer a threat.

Agnes was the worst prophet that's ever existed. Because she was always right. That's why the book never sold.

Sure, it was nice now, but eventually there would be running and screaming and blood on the floor.

I've even got one for you, too, Ellie." "Wow, thank you, Marcus." "The second one was supposed to be mine," he admitted with a shrug. "But since I don't want to look like a jackass, I'll give it to you. See what a nice guy I am?" I rolled my eyes at him. "God, Marcus, you're the sweetest guy ever." He grinned stupidly. "Actually, that's not true. I got it for you to begin with, because you two are attached at the hip and I figured you'd show up together. You're so predictable.

When they tell you to grow up, they mean stop growing. Reach a nice level plateau and settle there, predictable and unchanging, no longer a threat.

Every time he came back, apologetic, contrite, he'd start off being real nice. But he was as predictable as rain. No body knew when he'd go off, but at some point everybody knew he would.

Maybe it would feel nice. Maybe it wouldn't feel like a betrayal. Besides, who was I betraying, anyway? Just myself.

It's the treasure in the empty field; it's worth selling everything to own--your entertainment, your 401(k) or your registered retirement savings plan, your home, your comfort, the sand where you stick your head, your last word, your right answers, your safe and predictable nice little life centered on avoiding heartbreak or inconvenience to your schedule.

I love the library. My own personal book church. Safety. But I'm losing patience with fiction. The challenges and triumphs of fictional characters only make me feel worse about myself. Novels end nicely and neatly with all obstacles overcome. Loose ends tied up. My own story just keeps unraveling with depressing predictability.

Predictions are nice, if you can make them. But the essence of science lies in explanation, laying bare the fundamental mechanisms of nature.

It’d have been so nice if my life had been a well-controlled experiment. You know; start off with your basic ingredients, add education, experiences, events, stirring with a glass rod, when appropriate retarding the reaction with a block of ice. Predictable consequences, intended results, and something worth having at the end. Hasn’t quite worked out like that. As for the result, the product, we’ll have to wait and see. I may yet surprise myself.

When I behold other people, who are of course the children of some family or other, and think of my own children, and of myself...I am astonished at how sensible, well-behaved, practical, courteous, and predictable these other children are. The other children are so easy about the whole business of being who they are, being in the world, and getting along. Whereas with us it is an awful fight, all the way. I am left with the conclusion that we are quite probably crazy, but somehow not in a way that compels commitment. We get over our rampages before society or clinical insanity charges in on us. I can think of very few of us who are not nuts. And that's not at our worst, that's pretty much as we always are. We find fault with everything. The world stinks, and even long after we have reconciled ourselves to that truth, we still regret it, and now and then even rage against it. Running through the various branches of the family I fail to find one branch which might be said to be nice- ordinary, sober, adjusted, willing, courteous, undemanding, charming, practical, predictable, and all of the other things nice people are. Lunacy runs straight down the middle of every branch of my family. We have nobody who is not some kind of nut. What did it? How did it happen? Well, there's no answer, of course.

It is important,” the man in the grey suit interrupts. “Someone needs to tell those tales. When the battles are fought and won and lost, when the pirates find their treasures and the dragons eat their foes for breakfast with a nice cup of Lapsang souchong, someone needs to tell their bits of overlapping narrative. There’s magic in that. It’s in the listener, and for each and every ear it will be different, and it will affect them in ways they can never predict. From the mundane to the profound. You may tell a tale that takes up residence in someone’s soul, becomes their blood and self and purpose. That tale will move them and drive them and who knows what they might do because of it, because of your words. That is your role, your gift. Your sister may be able to see the future, but you yourself can shape it, boy. Do not forget that.” He takes another sip of his wine. “There are many kinds of magic, after all.” Widget

Someone needs to tell those tales. When the battles are fought and won and lost, when the pirates find their treasures and the dragons eat their foes for breakfast with a nice cup of Lapsang souchong, someone needs to tell their bits of overlapping narrative. There’s magic in that. It’s in the listener, and for each and every ear it will be different, and it will affect them in ways they can never predict. From the mundane to the profound. You may tell a tale that takes up residence in someone’s soul, becomes their blood and self and purpose. That tale will move them and drive them and who knows what they might do because of it, because of your words. That is your role, your gift. Your sister may be able to see the future, but you yourself can shape it, boy. Do not forget that.

It is important,” the man in the grey suit interrupts. “Someone needs to tell those tales. When the battles are fought and won and lost, when the pirates find their treasures and the dragons eat their foes for breakfast with a nice cup of Lapsang souchong, someone needs to tell their bits of overlapping narrative. There’s magic in that. It’s in the listener, and for each and every ear it will be different, and it will affect them in ways they can never predict. From the mundane to the profound. You may tell a tale that takes up residence in someone’s soul, becomes their blood and self and purpose. That tale will move them and drive them and who knows what they might do because of it, because of your words.

In 2008, Lawrence Williams and John Bargh conducted a study where they had people meet strangers. One group held a cup of warm coffee, and the other group held iced coffee. Later, when asked to rate the stranger’s personality, the people who held the warm coffee said they found the stranger to be nice, generous, and caring. The other group said the same person was difficult, standoffish, hard to talk to. In another round of research subjects held either a heating pad or a cold pack and then were asked to look at various products and judge their overall quality. Once they had done this, the experimenters told them they could choose a gift to keep for participating or they could give the gift to someone else. Those who held the heating pad chose to give away their reward 54 percent of the time, but only 25 percent of the cold pack group shared. The groups had turned their physical sensations into words, and then used those words as metaphors to explain their perceptions or predict their own actions.

The girls of the sixties had mothers who predicted, insisted, argued that those girls would be hurt; but they would not say how or why. In the main, the mothers appeared to be sexual conservatives: they upheld the marriage system as a social ideal and were silent about the sex in it. Sex was a duty inside marriage; a wife’s attitude toward it was irrelevant unless she made trouble, went crazy, fucked around. Mothers had to teach their daughters to like men as a class—be responsive to men as men, warm to men as men—and at the same time to not have sex. Since males mostly wanted the girls for sex, it was hard for the girls to understand how to like boys and men without also liking the sex boys and men wanted. The girls were told nice things about human sexuality and also told that it would cost them their lives—one way or another. The mothers walked a tough line: give the girls a good attitude, but discourage them. The cruelty of the ambivalence communicated itself, but the kindness in the intention did not: mothers tried to protect their daughters from many men by directing them toward one; mothers tried to protect their daughters by getting them to do what was necessary inside the male system without ever explaining why. They had no vocabulary for the why—why sex inside marriage was good but outside marriage was bad, why more than one man turned a girl from a loving woman into a whore, why leprosy or paralysis were states preferable to pregnancy outside marriage. They had epithets to hurl, but no other discourse. Silence about sex in marriage was also the only way to avoid revelations bound to terrify—revelations about the quality of the mothers’ own lives.

Captain Vincent had explained patiently to the owners, whoever they were, that several hundred square meters of steel plating and a barrel of rivets would be a better investment, and had been informed that his recommendation did not accord with current cost / benefit flow predictions.

Maybe... maybe the little accessories were right. Maybe he just didn't know how to ask nicely. No. Belle shook her head. She had read about this. The victims of kidnapping often wound up sympathizing with the perpetrator. It was a sickness, a very scientifically predictable one. This was the eighteenth century. The age of reason. And a man-beast had thrown her father into prison for simply trespassing. This wasn't just about a failure to be polite. This was about breaking the laws of France. Even if the little magical castle was hidden far from the worlds of Paris and Versailles. But...

Decisions are now made by one individual, rather than by a committee. He no longer has to mind read, predict, or try to please multiple voices with conflicting agendas. When putting himself first all the information he needs to make a decision is within him: "Is this what I want? Yes. Then that's what I'll do.

If you now ask me if there is any difference between the human sense of fairness and that of chimpanzees, I really don’t know anymore. There are probably a few differences left, but by and large both species actively seek to equalize outcomes. The great step up compared with the first-order fairness of monkeys, dogs, crows, parrots, and a few other species is that we hominids are better at predicting the future. Humans and apes realize that keeping everything for themselves will create bad feelings. So second-order fairness can be explained from a purely utilitarian perspective. We are fair not because we love each other or are so nice but because we need to keep cooperation flowing. It’s our way of retaining everyone on the team.

Someone needs to tell those tales. When the battles are fought and won and lost, when the pirates find their treasures and the dragons eat their foes for breakfast with a nice cup of Lapsang souchong, someone needs to tell their bits of overlapping narrative. There’s magic in that. It’s in the listener, and for each and every ear it will be different, and it will affect them in ways they can never predict. From the mundane to the profound. You may tell a tale that takes up residence in someone’s soul, becomes their blood and self and purpose. That tale will move them and drive them and who knows what they might do because of it, because of your words. That is your role, your gift. Your sister may be able to see the future, but you yourself can shape it, boy.

Someone needs to tell those tales. When the battles are fought and won and lost, when the pirates find their treasure and the dragons eat their foes for breakfast with a nice cup of Lapsang souchong, someone needs to tell their bits of overlapping narrative. There's magic in that. It's in the listener, and for each and every ear it will be different, and it will effect them in ways they can never predict.

I fucked them because I liked predictable men, the guarded and repressed. Sensitive men wouldn’t be trusted; they assumed their sensitivity made them special, deserving of praise. Most sensitive men were, at their cores, narcissists who constructed elaborate expectations for how relationships were meant to evolve. When those expectations weren’t met, the facade of sensitivity deteriorated into a petulant rage.

Someone needs to tell those tales. When the battles are fought and won and lost, when the pirates find their treasures and the dragons eat their foes for breakfast with a nice cup of Lapsang souchong, someone needs to tell their bits of overlapping narrative. There’s magic in that. It’s in the listener, and for each and every ear it will be different, and it will affect them in ways they can never predict. From the mundane to the profound.

Religions build theories about the world and then prevent them from being tested. Religions provide nice, appealing, and comforting ideas, and cloak them in a mask of “truth, beauty, and goodness.” The theories can then thrive despite being untrue, ugly, or cruel. In the end, there is no ultimate truth to be found and locked up forever, but there are truthful theories and better or worse predictions. I do defend the idea that science, at its best, is more truthful than religion.

It's a nice big fat philosophical question, about: how do you get through? Sometimes you don't survive whole, you just survive in part. But the grandeur of life is that attempt. It's not about that solution. It is about being as fearless as one can, and behaving as beautifully as one can, under completely impossible circumstances. It's that, that makes it elegant. Good is just more interesting, more complex, more demanding. Evil is silly, it may be horrible, but at the same time it's not a compelling idea. It's predictable. It needs a tuxedo, it needs a headline, it needs blood, it needs fingernails. It needs all that costume in order to get anybody's attention. But the opposite, which is survival, blossoming, endurance, those things are just more compelling intellectually if not spiritually, and they certainly are spiritually. This is a more fascinating job. We are already born, we are going to die. So you have to do something interesting that you respect in between.

If a model did anything too obviously bizarre—flooded the Sahara or tripled interest rates—the programmers would revise the equations to bring the output back in line with expectation. In practice, econometric models proved dismally blind to what the future would bring, but many people who should have known better acted as though they believed in the results. Forecasts of economic growth or unemployment were put forward with an implied precision of two or three decimal places. Governments and financial institutions paid for such predictions and acted on them, perhaps out of necessity or for want of anything better. Presumably they knew that such variables as “consumer optimism” were not as nicely measurable as “humidity” and that the perfect differential equations had not yet been written for the movement of politics and fashion. But few realized how fragile was the very process of modeling flows on computers, even when the data was reasonably trustworthy and the laws were purely physical, as in weather forecasting.

Here’s the bottom line. Right here, right now, God isn’t so much working to deliver to you your personal definition of happiness. He’s not committed to give you a predictable schedule, happy relationships, or comfortable surroundings. He hasn’t promised you a successful career, a nice place to live, and a community of people who appreciate you. What he has promised you is himself, and what he brings to you is the zeal of his transforming grace. No, he’s not first working on your happiness; he’s committed to your holiness.

Someone needs to tell those tales. When the battles are fought and won and lost, when the pirates find their treasures and the dragons eat their foes for breakfast with a nice cup of Lapsang souchong, someone needs to tell their bits of overlapping narrative. There’s magic in that. It’s in the listener, and for each and every ear it will be different, and it will affect them in ways they can never predict. From the mundane to the profound. You may tell a tale that takes up residence in someone’s soul, becomes their blood and self and purpose. That tale will move them and drive them and who knows what they might do because of it, because of your words.

It is important,” the man in the grey suit interrupts. “Someone needs to tell those tales. When the battles are fought and won and lost, when the pirates find their treasures and the dragons eat their foes for breakfast with a nice cup of Lapsang souchong, someone needs to tell their bits of overlapping narrative. There’s magic in that. It’s in the listener, and for each and every ear it will be different, and it will affect them in ways they can never predict. From the mundane to the profound. You may tell a tale that takes up residence in someone’s soul, becomes their blood and self and purpose. That tale will move them and drive them and who knows what they

Yeah, in my opinion the heart of the problem is Marxism-Leninism itself―the very idea that a "vanguard party" can, or has any right to, or has any capacity to lead the stupid masses towards some future they're too dumb to understand for themselves. I think what it's going to lead them towards is "I rule you with a whip." Institutions of domination have a nice way of reproducing themselves―I think that's kind of like an obvious sociological truism. And actually, if you look back, that was in fact Bakunin's prediction half a century before―he said this was exactly what was going to happen. I mean, Bakunin was talking about the people around Marx, this was before Lenin was born, but his prediction was that the nature of the intelligentsia as a formation in modern industrial society is that they are going to try to become the social managers. Now, they're not going to become the social managers because they own capital, and they're not going to become the social managers because they've got a lot of guns. They are going to become the social managers because they can control, organize, and direct what's called "knowledge"―they have the skills to process information, and to mobilize support for decision-making, and so on and so forth. And Bakunin predicted that these people would fall into two categories. On the one hand, there would be the "left" intellectuals, who would try to rise to power on the backs of mass popular movements, and if they could gain power, they would then beat the people into submission and try to control them. On the other hand, if they found that they couldn't get power that way themselves, they would become the servants of what we would nowadays call "state-capitalism," though Bakunin didn't use the term. And either of these two categories of intellectuals, he said, would be "beating the people with the people's stick"―that is, they'd be presenting themselves as representatives of the people, so they'd be holding the people's stick, but they would be beating the people with it.

Someone needs to tell those tales. When the battles are fought and won and lost, when the pirates find their treasures and the dragons eat their foes for breakfast with a nice cup of Lapsang souchong, someone needs to tell their bits of overlapping narrative. There’s magic in that. It’s in the listener, and for each and every ear it will be different, and it will affect them in ways they can never predict. From the mundane to the profound. You may tell a tale that takes up residence in someone’s soul, becomes their blood and self and purpose. That tale will move them and drive them and who knows what they might do because of it, because of your words. That is your role, your gift.

Someone needs to tell those tales. When the battles are fought and won and lost, when the pirates find their treasures and the dragons eat their foes for breakfast with a nice cup of Lapsang souchong, someone needs to tell their bits of overlapping narrative. There's magic in that. It's in the listener, and for each and every ear it will be different, and it will affect them in ways they can never predict. From the mundane to the profound. You may tell a tale that takes up residence in someone's soul, becomes their blood and self and purpose. That tale will move them and drive them and who knows what they might do because of it, because of your words. That is your role, your gift.

I’m so happy to be back here. You’re nice and quiet. Her waters stirred in something close to laughter. We don’t have to talk at all if you don’t want to. I’m happy just to hold you. I sank down, resting on the sandy Ocean floor, legs crossed and arms behind my head. I watched the trails of boats crisscrossing and fading along the surface above me. Fish swam by in schools, not spooked by the girl on the ground. So, about six months? I asked, my stomach twisting. Yes, barring some natural disaster or man-made sinking. I can’t predict those things. I know. Don’t start worrying about that yet. I can tell you’re still hurting from the last time. She wrapped me in sympathy. I lifted my arms as if I was stroking Her, though of course my tiny body was unable to truly embrace Hers. I feel like I never have enough time to get over a singing before the next one comes. I have nightmares, and I’m a nervous wreck during the weeks leading up to it. My chest felt hollow with misery. I’m afraid I’ll always remember how it feels. You won’t. In all My years, I’ve never had a freed siren come back to Me demanding that I fix her memories. Do You hear from them at all? Not intentionally. I feel people when they’re in Me. It’s how I find new girls. It’s how I listen for anyone who might suspect the true nature of My needs. Sometimes a former siren will go for a swim or stick her legs off a dock. I can get a peek at their lives, and no one has remembered Me yet. I’ll remember You, I promised. I could feel Her embracing me. For all eternity, I’ll never forget you. I love you. And I love You. You can rest here tonight, if you like. I’ll make sure no one finds you. Can I just stay down here forever? I don’t want to worry about hurting people unintentionally. Or disappointing my sisters. Aisling has her cottage, so maybe I could build a little house down here out of driftwood. She ran a current down my back gently. Sleep. You’ll feel differently in the morning. Your sisters would be lost without you. Trust Me, they think it all the time. Really? Really. Thank You. Rest. You’re safe.

It is important,” the man in the grey suit interrupts. “Someone needs to tell those tales. When the battles are fought and won and lost, when the pirates find their treasures and the dragons eat their foes for breakfast with a nice cup of Lapsang souchong, someone needs to tell their bits of overlapping narrative. There’s magic in that. It’s in the listener, and for each and every ear it will be different, and it will affect them in ways they can never predict. From the mundane to the profound. You may tell a tale that takes up residence in someone’s soul, becomes their blood and self and purpose. That tale will move them and drive them and who knows what they might do because of it, because of your words. That is your role, your gift.

Globe-trotting is just the chance to feel bored more places, faster. A boring breakfast in Bali. A predictable lunch in Paris. A tedious dinner in New York, and falling asleep, drunk, during just another blow job in L.A. Too many peak experiences, too close together. “Like the Getty Museum,” Inky says. “Lather, rinse, and repeat,” says the Global Airlines wino. In the boring new world of everyone in the upper-middle class, Inky says, nothing helps you enjoy your bidet like peeing in the street for a few hours. Give up bathing until you stink, and just a hot shower feels as good as a trip to Sonoma for a detoxifying mud enema. “Think of it,” Inky says, “as a kind of poverty sorbet, a nice little window of misery that helps you enjoy your real life.

Please,' she says, her head bent. 'Please. You must try to break the curse. I know that you are the queen by right and that you may not want him back, but-' If anything could have increased my astonishment, it was that. 'You think that I'd-' 'I didn't know you, before,' she says, the anguish clear in her voice. There is a hitch in her breath that comes with weeping. 'I thought you were just some mortal.' I have to bite my tongue at that, but I don't interrupt her. 'When you became his seneschal, I told myself that he wanted you for your lying tongue. Or because you'd become biddable, although you never were before. I should have believed you when you told him he didn't know the least of what you could do. 'While you were in exile, I got more of the story out of him. I know you don't believe this, but Cardan and I were friends before we were lovers, before Locke. He was my first friend when I came here from the Undersea. And we were friends, even after everything. I hate that he loves you.' 'He hated it, too,' I say with a laugh that sounds more brittle than I'd like. Nicasia fixes me with a long look. 'No, he didn't.' To that, I can only be silent. 'He frightens the Folk, but he's not what you think he is,' Nicasia says. 'Do you remember the servants that Balekin had? The human servants?' I nod mutely. Of course I remember. I will never forget Sophie and her pockets full of stones. 'They'd go missing sometimes, and there were rumours that Cardan hurt them, but it wasn't true. He'd return them to the mortal world.' I admit, I'm surprised. 'Why?' She throws up a hand. 'I don't know! Perhaps to annoy his brother. But you're human, so I thought you'd like that he did it. And he sent you a gown. For the coronation.' I remember it- the ball gown in the colours of the night, with the stark outlines of trees stitched on it and the crystals for stars. A thousand times more beautiful than the dress I commissioned. I had thought perhaps it came from Prince Dain, since it was his coronation and I'd sworn to be his creature when I'd joined the Court of Shadows. 'He never told you, did he?' Nicasia says. 'So see? Those are two nice things about him you didn't know. And I saw the way you used to look at him when you didn't think anyone was watching you.' I bite the inside of my cheek, embarrassed despite the fact that we were lovers, and wed, and it should hardly be a secret that we like each other. 'So promise me,' she says. 'Promise me you'll help him.' I think of the golden bridle, about the future the stars predicted. 'I don't know how to break the curse,' I say, all the tears I haven't shed welling up in my eyes. 'If I could, do you think i would be at this stupid banquet? Tell me what I must slay, what I must steal, tell me the riddle I must solve or the hag I must trick. Only tell me the way, and I will do it, no matter the danger, no matter the hardship, no matter the cost.' My voice breaks. She gives me a steady look. Whatever else I might think of her, she really does care for Cardan. And as tears roll down my cheeks, to her astonishment, I think she realises I do, too. Much good it does him.

I was reading a New Yorker online piece the other week by Roxanna Robinson, who always gives her first-year writing students at Hunter College Madame Bovary. And each year their reactions are predictably depressing. It’s a “cold” book, Flaubert doesn’t “like” his characters enough, Emma Bovary is “selfish”, she’s a “materialist” and, best of all, she’s a “bad mother”. One boy thinks that Rodolphe’s cowardly letter dismissing Emma is really cool (ie, applicable to his own life) until he is beaten up by the female students and backs down. In other words, these characters and their creator aren’t nice enough, they wouldn’t be my friends, they’re not enough like me and mine… It’s a world in which reading has been corrupted by the cliches of film and television – cliches of character as well as plot.

It is important," the man in the grey suit interrupts. "Someone needs to tell those tales. When battles are fought and won and lost, when pirates find their treasures and the dragons eat their foes for breakfast with a nice cup of Lapsang soughing, someone needs to tell their bits of overlapping narrative. There's magic in that. It's in the listener, and for each and every ear it will be different, and it will affect them in ways they can never predict. From the mundane to the profound. You may tell a tale that takes up residence in someone's soul, becomes their blood and self and purpose. That tale will move them and drive them and who knows what they might do because of it, because of your words. That is your role. That is your gift. Your sister may be able to see the future, but you can shape it, boy...There are many kinds of magic after all.

It is important," the man in the grey suit interrupts. "Someone needs to tell those tales. When the battles are fought and won and lost, when the pirates find their treasures and the dragons eat their foes for breakfast with a nice cup of Lapsang souchong, someone needs to tell their bits of overlapping narrative. There's magic in that. It's in the listener, and for each and every ear it will be different, and it will affect them in ways they can never predict. From the mundane to the profound. You may tell a tale that takes up residence in someone's soul, becomes their blood and self and purpose. That tale will move them and drive them and who knows what they might do because of it, because of your words. That is your role, your gift. Your sister may be able to see the future, but you yourself can shape it, boy. Do not forget that." He takes another sip of his wine. "There are many kinds of magic, after all.

Yesterday while I was on the side of the mat next to some wrestlers who were warming up for their next match, I found myself standing side by side next to an extraordinary wrestler. He was warming up and he had that look of desperation on his face that wrestlers get when their match is about to start and their coach is across the gym coaching on another mat in a match that is already in progress. “Hey do you have a coach.” I asked him. “He's not here right now.” He quietly answered me ready to take on the task of wrestling his opponent alone. “Would you mind if I coached you?” His face tilted up at me with a slight smile and said. “That would be great.” Through the sounds of whistles and yelling fans I heard him ask me what my name was. “My name is John.” I replied. “Hi John, I am Nishan” he said while extending his hand for a handshake. He paused for a second and then he said to me: “John I am going to lose this match”. He said that as if he was preparing me so I wouldn’t get hurt when my coaching skills didn’t work magic with him today. I just said, “Nishan - No score of a match will ever make you a winner. You are already a winner by stepping onto that mat.” With that he just smiled and slowly ran on to the mat, ready for battle, but half knowing what the probable outcome would be. When you first see Nishan you will notice that his legs are frail - very frail. So frail that they have to be supported by custom made, form fitted braces to help support and straighten his limbs. Braces that I recognize all to well. Some would say Nishan has a handicap. I say that he has a gift. To me the word handicap is a word that describes what one “can’t do”. That doesn’t describe Nishan. Nishan is doing. The word “gift” is a word that describes something of value that you give to others. And without knowing it, Nishan is giving us all a gift. I believe Nishan’s gift is inspiration. The ability to look the odds in the eye and say “You don’t pertain to me.” The ability to keep moving forward. Perseverance. A “Whatever it takes” attitude. As he predicted, the outcome of his match wasn’t great. That is, if the only thing you judge a wrestling match by is the actual score. Nishan tried as hard as he could, but he couldn’t overcome the twenty-six pound weight difference that he was giving up to his opponent on this day in order to compete. You see, Nishan weighs only 80 pounds and the lowest weight class in this tournament was 106. Nishan knew he was spotting his opponent 26 pounds going into every match on this day. He wrestled anyway. I never did get the chance to ask him why he wrestles, but if I had to guess I would say, after watching him all day long, that Nishan wrestles for the same reasons that we all wrestle for. We wrestle to feel alive, to push ourselves to our mental, physical and emotional limits - levels we never knew we could reach. We wrestle to learn to use 100% of what we have today in hopes that our maximum today will be our minimum tomorrow. We wrestle to measure where we started from, to know where we are now, and to plan on getting where we want to be in the future. We wrestle to look the seemingly insurmountable opponent right in the eye and say, “Bring it on. - I can take whatever you can dish out.” Sometimes life is your opponent and just showing up is a victory. You don't need to score more points than your opponent in order to accomplish that. No Nishan didn’t score more points than any of his opponents on this day, that would have been nice, but I don’t believe that was the most important thing to Nishan. Without knowing for sure - the most important thing to him on this day was to walk with pride like a wrestler up to a thirty two foot circle, have all eyes from the crowd on him, to watch him compete one on one against his opponent - giving it all that he had. That is what competition is all about. Most of the times in wrestlin

For variety, she threw in the occasional thunderclap of real anger. I never knew when they were coming or what was going to provoke them. Spending time with her was like inviting an unexploded bomb to lunch or on holiday with you: I was always on edge, wondering what was going to set her off. Once it was the fact that I’d bought a kennel for the dogs we kept at the house in Nice. Once it was Billy Elliot, apparently the only thing I’d done in about ten years that she thought was any good. The musical had really taken off in a way that no one involved in it had predicted, not just in the UK but in countries where people had barely heard of the Miners’ Strike or the impact of Thatcherism on the British manufacturing industry: the story at its heart turned out to be universal. Mum went to see it in London dozens of times, until one afternoon, when the box office misplaced her tickets for the matinee and took five minutes to find them, something she decided I had deliberately, meticulously planned in an attempt to humiliate her.

Just as we perceive the outside world on the basis of sensory signals met with a top-down flow of perceptual expectations and predictions, the same applies to perceptions of the internal state of the body. The brain has to know what the internal state of the body is like. It doesn’t have direct access to it, even though both the brain and body happen to be wrapped within a single layer of skin. As with perception of the outside world, all the brain gets from the inside of the body are noisy, ambiguous electrical signals. Therefore it has to bring to bear predictions and expectations in order to make sense of the barrage of sensory signals coming from inside the body, in just the same way as for vision and all the other “classic” senses. And this is what’s collectively called interoception—perception of the body from within. The same computational principles apply. In this view, we can think of emotional conscious experiences, feeling states, in the framework of “interoceptive inference.” So emotions become predictions—“best guesses”—about the hidden causes of interoceptive signals, in the same way that experiences of the outside world are constituted by predictions of the causes of sensory signals. This gives a nice computational and mechanistic gloss to old theories of emotion that originated with William James and Karl Lange—that emotion has to do with perception of physiological change in the body and by the subsequent cognitive “appraisal” of these changes. The predictive-processing view adds to these theories by saying that emotional experience is the joint content of predictions about the causes of interoceptive signals at all levels of abstraction.

Correct Overestimated Feedback Fears One of the reasons anxious people fear feedback is that they tend to judge their performance more harshly than others judge them. If you’re feeling anxious, you’ll probably overestimate the likelihood that any feedback you’ll get will be negative—the negative predictions thinking error. Let’s say you need to get feedback on your delivery of an upcoming presentation. You fear that you’ll get crucified, that people will say your presentation style is horrible and won’t say anything nice. How likely does this feared outcome feel? You might say, “It feels 99% likely.” How likely is it in reality? You think, “Objectively, maybe 50%?” Your answer of 50% may still be an overestimate, but at least it jump-starts the shift in your thinking. It alters you that your anxious feelings are, to some extent, clouding your perceptions. Although it seems strange that people can shift their thinking just based on whether they are asked to think with their anxious mind or their objective mind, this isn’t as far-fetched as it sounds. There’s lots of research evidence that people’s thinking changes based on how they’re asked to think about something. For example, my own doctoral research asked people in relationships how their judgments of their romantic partner compared to reality. People recognized that they tended to view their partners more positively than warranted by reality. Experiment: Think of a current area in your life where feedback would be useful to you, but you’re avoiding it. Ask yourself two questions (answer using a percentage, as shown in the example): --How likely does it feel that I’m going to get very negative feedback? --How likely is it in reality?

The other important aspect of the “interoceptive inference” view is that the purpose of perceiving the body from within has little to do with figuring out what’s there. My brain couldn’t care less that my internal organs are objects with particular locations within my body. The only thing that’s important about my internal physiology is that it works, that it keeps me alive. The brain cares primarily about control and regulation of the body’s internal state. So perceptual predictions for the body’s interior are of a very different kind: they’re instrumental, they’re control-oriented, they’re not epistemic, they’re not to do with “finding out.” For me, this is suggestive of why our experiences of being a body have this nonobject-based phenomenological character, compared to our experiences of the outside world. More speculatively, there is the idea that all forms of perception, conscious and unconscious, derive from this fundamental imperative for physiological regulation. If we understand that the original (evolutionary) purpose of predictive perception was to control and regulate the internal state of the body, and that all the other kinds of perceptual prediction are built on that evolutionary imperative, then ultimately the way we perceive the outside world is predicated on these mechanisms that have their primary objective in the regulation of an internal bodily state. This idea is really important for me, because it gets away from pretheoretical associations of consciousness and perception with cognition, with language, and maybe also with social interaction—all “higher order” properties of cognition. Instead, it grounds consciousness and perception much more strongly in the basic mechanisms of life. It might not just be that life provides a nice analogy with consciousness in terms of hard problems and mysteries, but that there are actually deep obligate connections between mechanisms of life and the way we perceive, consciously and unconsciously, ourselves and the world.

What is the matter with her?” Lillian asked Daisy, bewildered by her mother’s docile manner. It was nice not to have to scrap and spar with Mercedes, but at the same time, now was when Lillian would have expected Mercedes to mow her over like a charging horse brigade. Daisy shrugged and replied puckishly, “One can only assume that since you’ve done the opposite of everything she has advised, and you seem to have brought Lord Westcliff up to scratch, Mother has decided to leave the matter in your hands. I predict that she will turn a deaf ear and a blind eye to anything you do, so long as you manage to keep the earl’s interest.” “Then… if I steal away to Lord Westcliff’s room later this evening, she won’t object?” Daisy gave a low laugh. “She would probably help you to sneak up there, if you asked.” She gave Lillian an arch glance. “Just what are you going to do with Lord Westcliff, alone in his room?” Lillian felt herself flush. “Negotiate.” “Oh. Is that what you call it?” Biting back a smile, Lillian narrowed her eyes. “Don’t be saucy, or I won’t tell you the lurid details later.” “I don’t need to hear them from you,” Daisy said airily. “I’ve been reading the novels that Lady Olivia recommended… and now I daresay I know more than you and Annabelle put together.” Lillian couldn’t help laughing. “Dear, I’m not certain that those novels are entirely accurate in their depiction of men, or of… of that.” Daisy frowned. “In what way are they not accurate?” “Well, there’s not really any sort of… you know, lavender mist and the swooning, and all the flowery speeches.” Daisy regarded her with sincere disgruntlement. “Not even a little swooning?” “For heaven’s sake, you wouldn’t want to swoon, or you might miss something.” “Yes, I would. I should like to be fully conscious for the beginning, and then I should like to swoon through the rest of it.” Lillian regarded her with startled amusement. “Why?” “Because it sounds dreadfully uncomfortable. Not to mention revolting.” “It’s not.” “Not what? Uncomfortable, or revolting?” “Neither,” Lillian said in a matter-of-fact tone, though she was struggling not to laugh. “Truly, Daisy. I would tell you if it were otherwise. It’s lovely. It really is.” Her younger sister contemplated that, and glanced at her skeptically. “If you say so.

Someone needs to tell those tales. When the battles are fought and lost, when the pirates find their treasures and the dragons eat their foes for breakfast with a nice cup of Lapsang souchong, someone needs to tell their bits of overlapping narrative. There's magic in that. It's in the listener, and for each and every ear it will be different, and it will affect them in ways the can never predict. From the mundane to the profound. You may tell a tale that takes up residence in someone's soul, becomes their blood and self and purpose. That tale will move them and drive them and who knows what they might do because of it, because of your words.[...]There are many kinds of magic, after all.

Feinstein’s fact-finding missions often verged on the ludicrous. An ardent opponent of the city’s growing porn industry, Feinstein decided she should go to an adult movie to see for herself what she was up against, dragging along another nice Jewish girl, Chronicle society columnist Merla Zellerbach, to a seedy theater. Predictably, Feinstein and her friend were horrified. On another occasion, Feinstein—determined to clean up the Tenderloin, the city’s drugged-out red-light district—put on a blond wig and stood on a street corner for three hours to learn more about the raunchy neighborhood.

My dear Countess,” a fluting voice said at my right ear, and Lady Tamara’s soft hand slid along my arm, guiding me toward the lowest tier near the fireplace. Several people moved away, and we sank down onto the cushions there. Tamara gestured to one of the hovering foot-servants, and two glasses of wine were instantly brought. “Did I not predict that you would show us the way at the races as well?” “I won only once,” I said, fighting against embarrassment. Deric was grinning. “Beat me,” he said. “Nearly beat Renna.” “I had the best horse,” I countered. For a moment the conversation turned from me to the races the week before. It had been a sudden thing, arranged on the first really nice day we’d had, and though the course was purported to be rough, I had found it much easier than riding mountain trails. As Deric described the last obstacles of the race in which I had beaten him, I saw the shy red-haired Lord Geral listening with a kind of ardent expression in his eyes. He was another who often sought me out for dances but rarely spoke otherwise. Might my rose and ring have come from him? Tamara’s voice recalled my attention “…the way with swords as well, dear Countess?” I glanced at her, sipping at my wine as I mentally reached for the subject. “It transpires,” Tamara said with a glinting smile, “that our sharpest wits are also experts at the duel. Almost am I willing to rise at dawn, just to observe you at the cut and the thrust.” I opened my mouth to disclaim any great prowess with the sword, then realized that I’d walk right into her little verbal trap if I did so. Now, maybe I’m not any kind of a sharp wit, but I wasn’t going to hand myself over for trimming so easily. So I just smiled and sipped at my wine. Fialma’s faint, die-away voice was just audible on Tamara’s other side. “Tamara, my love, that is not dueling, but mere swordplay.” Tamara’s blue eyes rounded with perplexity. “True, true, I had forgotten.” She smiled suddenly, her fan waving slowly in query mode. “An academic question: Is it a real duel when one is favored by the opponent?” Fialma said, “Is it a real contest, say, in a race when the better rider does not ride?” She turned her thin smile to Shevraeth. “Your grace?” The Marquis bowed slightly, his hands at an oblique angle. “If a stake is won,” he said, “it is a race. If the point draws blood, it is a duel.” A murmur of appreciative laughter met this, and Fialma sighed ever so slightly. “You honor us,” she murmured, sweeping her fan gracefully in the half circle of Intimate Confidence, “with your liberality…” She seated herself at the other side of the fireplace and began a low-voiced conversation with Lady Dara, the heir to a northern duchy. Just beyond Fialma’s waving fan, Lord Flauvic’s metal-gold eyes lifted from my face to Shevraeth’s to Tamara’s, then back to me. What had I missed? Nee’s cheeks were glowing, but that could have been her proximity to the fire. Branaric spoke then, saluting Shevraeth with his wineglass. “Duel or dabble, I’d hie me to those practices, except I just can’t stomach rough work at dawn. Now, make them at noon, and I’m your man!” More laughter greeted this, and Bran turned to Flauvic. “How about you? Join me in agitating for a decent time?” Lord Flauvic also had a fan, but he had not opened it. Holding it horizontally between his fingers in the mode of the neutral observer, he said, “Not at any time, Tlanth. You will forgive me if I am forced to admit that I am much too lazy?

I've got this problem, you see, and I thought that maybe you'd know what I should do about it." "Go on." "He's —" Amy was blushing now, head bent as she rolled and unrolled the hem of her apron between thumb and forefinger — "he's terribly handsome, you know." "You in love with him?" Leave it to Mira not to waste words.  "I . . . I think I might be." "Bleedin' hell Amy, you do have a problem." "I know.  And the thing is, he's engaged to someone else.  A colonial girl, down in Boston."  She looked up at Mira, her eyes desperate.  "I shouldn't be feeling this way, Mira.  He's not mine to dream over, he's not mine to think about, he's not mine, period — and yet I can't stop dreaming about him, I can't stop thinking about him, and just being in the same room with him is torment because I find myself wanting to do all these lustful, wicked things with him.  I'm wanton, Mira, the fruit of sin, and already I'm going the same route as —" "Oh, not this again, I won't hear it." "Mira, you know as well as I do that the circumstances of my birth are no secret!  This — this wantonness is just what Sylvanus always predicted for me, and it's all because I've got the blood of a —" Mira put up a hand.  "You say he's handsome?" "Yes." "Kind?" "Oh, yes — he defended me against my sisters, refused to let me slave over him, complimented me on my cooking, managed to trap Ophelia and Mildred into doing some work, and set an example at table last night over how he thinks I ought to be treated." "Well, hallelujah." "What?" "And you wonder why the hell ye're havin' lustful thoughts about him?!  Bleedin' hell, Amy, if I was in yer shoes, had a family like yours, and a man treated me like that, I'd be all over him like cream on milk." "Mira!" "Well, I would.  And ye know something?  I think that if he wants to treat ye nice, you damn well oughtta let him do it.  Ain't no one else in that house who does, and maybe the rest of 'em will learn by his example.  Hell, he might be a damned Brit, but if he can do that much for ye, then he's got my eternal gratitude.

I often have to remind myself that things of substance do not come easily - and niceness comes easily. We are nice in those brief interactions with drive-thru tellers and clerks at the department store - as we should be - but we all seem to realize that niceness in this sense is only a facade, a way to avoid rudeness and unpleasant encounters. I admit that sometimes I like the facade. But there's no sacrifice in niceness, no difficulty, no striving. Niceness is manufactured, neat and perfect, predictable and uniform. Not as similar to kindness as the thesaurus would have you think. Kindness is so human that it's been mangled up by human hands, twisted into knots by those who aren't sure how to handle it yet, uneven but real.

Largely in five or six years I think vinyl will go,' Wilson predicted. 'I welcome that. I've no reservations at all. Perhaps CD is part of the whole yuppie culture, they discovered it, but that will change because it sounds so great. I'm a CD evangelist, maybe I'm a yuppie too and as we all know, all yuppies should be shot. As a member of the middle class I've always said I don't mind going to the wall if it's absolutely necessary.

Giving to get creates a cycle of craziness called the victim triangle. The victim triangle consists of three predictable sequences: 1) The Nice Guy gives to others hoping to get something in return. 2) When it doesn't seem that he is getting as much as he gives or he isn't getting what he expected, he feels frustrated and resentful. Remember, the Nice Guy is the one keeping score and he isn't totally objective. 3) When this frustration and resentment builds up long enough, it spills out in the form of rage attacks, passive-aggressive behavior, pouting, tantrums, withdrawing, shaming, criticizing, blaming, even physical abuse. Once the cycle has been completed, it usually just begins all over again.

The first 20 percent often begins with having the right data, the right technology, and the right incentives. You need to have some information—more of it rather than less, ideally—and you need to make sure that it is quality-controlled. You need to have some familiarity with the tools of your trade—having top-shelf technology is nice, but it’s more important that you know how to use what you have. You need to care about accuracy—about getting at the objective truth—rather than about making the most pleasing or convenient prediction, or the one that might get you on television. Then you might progress to a few intermediate steps, developing some rules of thumb (heuristics) that are grounded in experience and common sense and some systematic process to make a forecast rather than doing so on an ad hoc basis.

I’m not as predictable, nice, or sensible as your husband. But I know something about Cleo Callaway that seems to be passing him by – I know that you’re not happy. And that’s a dangerous thing for me to know.

Someday, this calm and peaceful sight before my eyes will be a nice memory in the back of all our minds. Things will get shaken up again, broken into pieces, and we will need to put it all back together the best we can. And we will, because although we can't rely on a stable, predictable Earth in the years to come, we can rely on each other. That is the future. That is today.

The human body can go either way, depending on how you use it. If you get off your ass and actively seek out pain, the body is antifragile, meaning it gets stronger the more stress and strain you put on it. The breaking down of your body through exercise and physical labor builds muscle and bone density, improves circulation, and gives you a really nice butt. But if you avoid stress and pain (i.e., if you sit on your damn couch all day watching Netflix), your muscles will atrophy, your bones will become brittle, and you will degenerate into weakness. The human mind operates on the same principle. It can be fragile or antifragile depending on how you use it. When struck by chaos and disorder, our minds set to work making sense of it all, deducing principles and constructing mental models, predicting future events and evaluating the past. This is called “learning,” and it makes us better; it allows us to gain from failure and disorder.

Like you?” a voice asked. Hank spun around, startled, to find Erica fifteen feet away, standing next to a large pile of snowballs. Meanwhile, Hank had thrown his last one at me and was unarmed. Instantly, his demeanor changed from cocky to weaselly. “Hold on, Erica,” he pleaded. “I was just trying to teach Ben a lesson. . . .” “So now I’ll teach you one,” Erica said. “Don’t be a jerk, or this will happen.” With that, she unleashed a fusillade of snowballs, moving so fast Hank might as well have been shot with a snowball machine gun. Hank ran, but Erica predicted his every move, pegging him repeatedly, until he finally escaped into the safety of the lobby. “Nice work, roomie!” Zoe cheered, emerging from a motel room. Zoe tended to be unnaturally cheerful most of the time, but being on her first mission—and at a ski resort—had made her almost manic with glee. She’d been smiling constantly since the moment we’d met at the airport that morning. “You sure showed him!” Erica regarded Zoe curiously, thrown by her enthusiasm. “Yes,” she said finally, “I did.

You see, whatever important thing rules your heart also shapes your words and behavior. The fact of the matter is that we all lose sight of what is truly important. Winning an argument becomes too important for us. A beautiful house rises in importance beyond its true worth. Getting that next promotion becomes too important. Having a comfortable and predictable life takes on too much value. Being liked by other people becomes more important to us than the favor of God. Physical beauty and pleasure take on too much value in our hearts. A cool car, a great steak, nice clothes, or the last bowl of cereal from the box rises in value far beyond its true significance. We all need to be reminded again and again of what God has declared are the most important things in life.

Maybe he just didn’t know how to ask nicely. No. Belle shook her head. She had read about this. The victims of kidnapping often wound up sympathizing with the perpetrator. It was a sickness, a very scientifically predictable one. This was the eighteenth century. The age of reason.

Economists are beginning to use attention to explain economic decisions.2 As a nice example, if shoppers were to pay full attention to the price they paid for goods and services, we would predict that $4.00 CDs could be advertised on eBay as $0.01 plus $3.99 shipping or $4.00 plus no shipping and generate the same sales. But in reality, shoppers pay much more attention to the sale price and much less to the shipping cost, and so sellers make more sales in the former condition.3 The inherent scarcity of attention has also caught on in the business world; it’s described as the “attention economy,” where obtaining the attention of customers and employees who are constantly bombarded by information and technology is an essential element of commercial success.

...People had been predicting the death of the city for years. Would that finally drive all the people out of this sinking island? I imagined office buildings filled with screeches instead of conference calls and streets clogged with weeds instead of cars. I could see the appeal. It wasn't like a scorpion was going to charge me 10 percent interest on a medical loan for an upgrade I needed to live. Venom was quick, capitalism killed you nice and slow. Then sent you a bill.

Another former chess player shared his own fond memory of Thiel from this era. Around the spring of 1988, the team was driving to Monterey for a tournament, with Thiel behind the wheel of the Rabbit. They took California’s Route 17, a four-lane highway that crosses the Santa Cruz Mountains and is regarded as one of the state’s most dangerous. The team was in no particular hurry, but Thiel drove as if he were a man possessed. He navigated the turns like Michael Andretti, weaving in and out of lanes, nearly rear-ending cars as he slipped past them, and seemed to be flooring the accelerator for large portions of the trip. Somewhat predictably, the lights of a California Highway Patrol cruiser eventually appeared in his rearview. Thiel was pulled over, and the trooper asked if he knew how fast he was going. The young men in the rest of the car, simultaneously relieved to have been stopped and scared of the trooper, looked at each other nervously. “Well,” Thiel responded, in his calmest, most measured baritone. “I’m not sure if the concept of a speed limit makes sense.” The officer said nothing. Thiel continued: “It may be unconstitutional. And it’s definitely an infringement on liberty.” The officer looked at Thiel and the geeks in the beater car and decided the whole thing wasn’t worth his time. He told Thiel to slow down and have a nice day. “I don’t remember any of the games we played,” said the man, now in his fifties, who’d been in the passenger seat. “But I will never forget that drive.

A bicycle in traffic must be predictive to the point of clairvoyance, must know the cars better than the cars know themselves, must understand their motivations and their common blunders. Cars don't always signal their intentions. And cars aren't always nice to each other, though they usually show each other some respect in deference to the damage they can do to each other. They are like important men in conversation with other important men. Bicycles are sometimes kindly accommodated by cars, often ignored, occasionally respected, sometimes nervously followed, and frequently not even seen. In this sense, riding in traffic is not unlike being a woman among men.

Someone needs to tell those tales. When the battles are fought and won and lost, when the pirates find their treasures and the dragons eat their foes for breakfast with a nice cup of Lapsang souchong, someone needs to tell their bits of overlapping narrative. There's magic in that. It's in the listener, and for each and every ear it will be different, and it will affect them in ways they can never predict. From the mundane to the profound. You may tell a tale that takes up residence in someone's soul, becomes their blood and self and purpose. That tale will move them and drive them and who knows what they might do because of it, because of your words. That is your role, your gift. Your sister may be able to see the future, but you yourself can shape it, boy. Do not forget that... there are many kinds of magic, after all.

This discovery led to an important question. How does the brain make predictions? One potential answer is that the brain has two types of neurons: neurons that fire when the brain is actually seeing something, and neurons that fire when the brain is predicting it will see something. To avoid hallucinating, the brain needs to keep its predictions separate from reality. Using two sets of neurons does this nicely. However, there are two problems with this idea.

Some special companies see trust as a public good (like clean air and water), and customers return the trust. One company in which I personally have a lot of faith is Timberland, the maker of outdoor clothing. I once attended a talk by Jeff Swartz, the CEO, in which he detailed many of the ways that Timberland is trying to reduce CO2 emissions, recycle, use sustainable materials, and treat its employees fairly. At the end of Jeff’s talk, another CEO asked him, “What are the returns on these investments?” Jeff answered that he has been trying to find an economic return for these actions but that he had not yet found it in the data. He further added that it would be nice if being environmentally and socially responsible was also financially rewarding but that he didn’t really feel it was necessary. He simply wanted to make sure that his company followed the moral principles he wanted his kids to live by. After hearing this, I went and bought my first pair of Timberland shoes.

Order and rules bring me peace. Control is my love language. It’s why I love Tory. He’ll never love me back. He tolerates my flirting and joking. It’s easy. Predictable. Dependable. In fact, him being overtly nice to me would be the most shocking thing he could do.

Children in war zones play out the violence they see around them; they’re impulsive and cannot access critical thinking skills because they’re in the “fight or flight” mode, too busy fending off their fears and anxieties. These results made me wonder if my work at the RFS was futile. Perhaps what these children needed more than anything else was to receive psychotherapy treatments to help them recover from these traumas, and the end of the Occupation, two things I obviously had no control over. In my readings I came across only one hopeful aspect—the most important resiliency factor predicting psychological adjustment in traumatized children is a loving and present mother or father. I could tell how much the children at the Ramallah Friends School were loved by their parents. The children were held and kissed with obvious affection; they went on vacations with their parents; they were well fed, dressed nicely, and had toys. I was not surprised to read about the importance of a constant loving figure in a child’s life, since responsive mothering is at the core of attachment theory. When you know you can count on your mother or father’s presence and unconditional love, you grow up able to function in the world with a sense of confidence and security. Despite the Israeli Occupation, Palestinian children will grow up to become confident adults because their parents love them. I think of my own mother, of how much she had suffered and lost but how much she has infused me with her love, courage, self-reliance, and trust. I am who I am today because she was capable of transcending her own trauma to create a stable, loving, and responsive home for me. My father, too, gave me his unconditional love and modeled a poised and assured demeanor in the world.

I wasn’t getting bent out of shape about it. I’d seen enough combat to know that that was the way it went. Plans look nice on paper, but rarely play out that way in real life, simply because no one can possibly predict all the potential obstacles. Human error, enemy movements, terrain that has changed or isn’t quite what it looks like on the imagery, weather, mechanical failures…the list of things that could render a plan as written invalid was a long one. As an old mentor of mine once said, “A plan is just a list of shit that ain’t gonna happen.

In drafting Side Affects, other trans folks have told me over and over how relatable a book about, as I describe it in shorthand, "being trans and feeling bad" is. but I have also had many folks ask me why I choose to dwell on negative affect rather than, say, the experience of so-called gender euphoria experienced by subjects when their correct pronouns are used or when they engage in some kind of gender-affirming activity. [...] and I definitely can't pretend that the cultivation of happiness makes any sense at all as a political aim. If and when I feel something akin to gender euphoria, it's surprising, dependent off actors well beyond my own agency, and also somewhat predictably predicated on axes of privilege that structure my quotidian experience. Moreover, it doesn't last. [...] the opening line of Tolstoy's Anna Karenina: all happy families are the same, they say, but every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way. What they mean by this is that happiness is not actually all that interesting: there's nothing there to process, nothing there to illuminate, nothing that's particularly mysterious, enigmatic, confusing, or complex. Happiness is nice, that most lukewarm of adjectives, and in its niceness, it is also banal. They're saying, in these moments, that it's alright that we'll be processing trauma for the rest of our lives; it's to be expected, and it's from and through that collective processing that we'll be most able to approximate anything close to radical transformation, anything that remotely resembles healing. The only way around it is straight through.

Following Charlotte downstairs, I get a nice view of her curvy ass in that sexy dress and those heels. Damn, those heels. I intentionally made her no promises about using my magic, as I’m never going to make a promise to Charlotte I might have to break. There are too many variables to predict what might happen this evening. Just as Charlotte is her father’s daughter, I am my father’s son.

Pisces Horoscope 2015 In A Nutshell Pisceans, 2015 is going to begin beautifully for you. An auspicious ceremony may take place at home. It is a time to cherish the celebration at home. However, rude behavior of some family members may hurt you. But, I would suggest you to just ignore. Seeing the position of Ketu over ascendant, you need take good care of your health. In such situation, it will be important to keep an eye on your eating habits. Astrology prediction 2015 suggests you to drive very carefully. According to the horoscope 2015, time can be said nice for love matters, but position of Rahu in seventh is not considered very good, comparatively. Hence, love and faith are the major ingredients that will always be in demand. 2015 horoscope foretell that you may get a better job. You will be seen grinning from ear to ear. However, hard work and responsibilities may increase. So, be prepared. Also, there are good chances of the increment in benefits. It is a double celebration time, so many good things are coming your way. According to the astrology 2015, time will be positive for education. But, some troubles may arise in the second half of 2015. Remedy: Donate rice, jaggery and gram lentils in a temple.

The cognitive sophistication of a mammalian species, in fact, is nicely predicted by the extent of the convergence that occurs in its cortex-more is present in humans than in monkeys, and more in monkeys than in rats. When plasticity occurs simultaneously in two regions that fed into a convergence zone, plasticity is also likely to occur in the convergence zone since it will be the recipient of the high level of activity that occurs when plasticity is being established in the individual regions. Obviously, synchrony and modulation also influence convergence zones, further increasing their potential to integrate information across systems.

The day after our wedding, we flew off on honeymoon. I had recklessly waited until two days before our wedding to book the holiday, in the hope that I would get some great last-minute deal somewhere. Always a dangerous tactic. I pretended to Shara that it was a surprise. But, predictably, those “great deals” were a bit thin on the ground that week. The best I could find was a one-star package holiday, at a resort near Cancun in Mexico. It was bliss being together, but there was no hiding the fact that the hotel sucked. We got put in a room right next to the sewer outlet--which gave us a cracking smell to enjoy every evening as we sat looking out at the…maintenance shed opposite. As lunch wasn’t included in the one-star package, we started stockpiling the breakfasts. A couple of rolls down the jersey sleeve, and a yogurt and banana in Shara’s handbag. Then back to the hammock for books, kissing, and another whiff of sewage. When we returned to the UK it was a freezing cold January day. Shara was tired, but we were both excited to get onto our nice, warm, centrally heated barge. It was to be our first night in our own home. I had asked Annabel, Shara’s sister, to put the heating on before we arrived, and some food in the fridge. She had done so perfectly. What she didn’t know, though, was that the boiler packed in soon after she left. By the time Shara and I made it to the quayside on the Thames, it was dark. Our breath was coming out as clouds of vapor in the freezing air. I picked Shara up and carried her up the steps onto the boat. We opened the door and looked at each other. Surprised. It was literally like stepping into a deep freeze. Old iron boats are like that in winter. The cold water around them means that, without heating, they are Baltically cold. We fumbled our way, still all wrapped up, into the bowels of the boat and the boiler room. Shara looked at me, then at the silent, cold boiler. No doubt she questioned how smart both choices had really been. So there we were. No money, and freezing cold--but happy and together. That night, all wrapped up in blankets, I made a simple promise to Shara: I would love her and look after her, every day of our life together--and along the way we would have one hell of an adventure. Little did either of us realize, but this was really just the beginning.

There are many types of teachers out there from many traditions. Some are very ordinary and some seem to radiate spirituality from every pore. Some are nice, some are indifferent, and some may seem like sergeants in boot camp. Some stress reliance on one’s own efforts, others stress reliance on the grace of the guru. Some are very available and accessible, and some may live far away, grant few interviews, or have so many students vying for their time that you may rarely get a chance to talk with them. Some seem to embody the highest ideals of the perfected spiritual life in their every waking moment, while others may have many noticeable quirks, faults and failings. Some live by rigid moral codes, while others may push the boundaries of social conventions and mores. Some may be very old, and some may be very young. Some may require strict commitments and obedience, while others may hardly seem to care what we do at all. Some may advocate very specific practices, stating that their way is the only way or the best way, while others may draw from many traditions or be open to your doing so. Some may point out our successes, while others may dwell on our failures. Some may stress renunciation or even ordination into a monastic order, while others seem relentlessly engaged with “the world.” Some charge a bundle for their teachings, while others give theirs freely. Some like scholarship and the lingo of meditation, while others may never use or even openly despise these formal terms and conceptual frameworks. Some teachers may be more like friends or equals that just want to help us learn something they happened to be good at, while others may be all into the hierarchy, status and role of being a teacher. Some teachers will speak openly about attainments, and some may not. Some teachers are remarkably predictable in their manner and teaching style, while others swing wide in strange and unpredictable ways. Some may seem very tranquil and mild mannered, while others may seem outrageous or rambunctious. Some may seem extremely humble and unimposing, while others may seem particularly arrogant and presumptuous. Some are charismatic, while others may be distinctly lacking in social skills. Some may readily give us extensive advice, and some just listen and nod. Some seem the living embodiment of love, and others may piss us off on a regular basis. Some teachers may instantly click with us, while others just leave us cold. Some teachers may be willing to teach us, and some may not. So far as I can tell, none of these are related in any way to their meditation ability or the depths of their understanding. That is, don’t judge a meditation teacher by their cover. What is important is that their style and personality inspire us to practice well, to live the life we want to live, to find what it is we wish to find, to understand what we wish to understand. Some of us may wander for a long time before we find a good fit. Some of us will turn to books for guidance, reading and practicing without the advantages or hassles of teachers. Some of us may seem to click with a practice or teacher, try to follow it for years and yet get nowhere. Others seem to fly regardless. One of the most interesting things about reality is that we get to test it out. One way or another, we will get to see what works for us and what doesn’t, what happens when we do certain practices or follow the advice of certain teachers, as well as what happens when we don’t.

guiding users through a process quickly and easily is good for business, because the fewer people who get frustrated or confused, the more sales or sign-ups are completed. The problem, though, is that making interactions feel smooth and simple sounds nice, but it starts to fail as soon as you’re asking users for messy, complicated information. And as you’ll see in this chapter, all kinds of everyday questions can be messy and complicated—often in ways designers haven’t predicted. NAMING THE PROBLEM Sara Ann Marie Wachter-Boettcher. That’s how my birth certificate reads: five names, one hyphen, and a whole lot of consonant clusters (thanks, Mom and Dad!). I was used to it being misspelled. I was used to it being pronounced all sorts of ways. I was even used to everyone who looks at my driver’s license commenting that it takes up two whole lines. But I didn’t expect my name to cause me so many problems online. As it turns out, tons of services haven’t thought much about the wide range of names out there. So, on Twitter I forgo spaces to fit my professional name in: SaraWachterBoettcher. On online bill pay, they’ve truncated it for me: Sara Wachter-Boettch. In my airline’s online check-in system, hyphens straight up don’t exist. The list goes on. It’s irritating. It takes some extra time (do I enter a space between my last names, or just squish them together?). I see more error messages than I’d like. But it’s still a minor inconvenience, compared to what other people experience.

Greeting the security staff, Mackay led Liz through the atrium into a busy and attractive restaurant. The tablecloths were white linen, the silver and glassware shone, and the dark panorama of the Thames was framed by a curtained sweep of plate glass. Most of the tables were occupied. The muted buzz of conversation dipped for a moment as they entered. Leaving her coat at the desk, Liz followed Mackay to a table overlooking the river. “This is all very nice and unexpected,” she said sincerely. “Thank you for inviting me.” “Thank you for accepting.” “I’m assuming a fair few of these people are your lot?” “One or two of them are, and when you walked across the room just then, you enhanced my standing by several hundred per cent. You will note that we’re being discreetly observed.” She smiled. “I do note it. You should send your colleagues downriver for one of our surveillance courses.” They examined the menus. Leaning forward confidentially, Mackay told Liz that he could predict what she was going to

It was confusing for Olivia because she was so attracted to Matt in so many ways, while Ben seemed so nice, maybe too nice, and, even worse, predictable. But the more she thought about it, the more Olivia realized that those were actually good things for a man to be. That she deserved to be with a man who would be kind to her and whose motivations were clear and rational. She’d been surprised to find herself thinking of Ben ever since.

You don't have to be mean," said Antsy. "Sadly, sometimes, I do," said Sumi. "If I was nice all the time, that would be predictable, and if I become predictable, I die inside.

You don't have to be mean," said Antsy. "Sadly, sometimes, I do," said Sumi. "If I was nice all the time, I would be predictable, and if I become predictable, I die inside.