Playback Quotes

To live (as I understand it) is to exist within a conception of time. But to remember is to vacate the very notion of time. Every memory, no matter how remote its subject, takes place 'Now,' at the moment it's called to the mind. The more something is recalled, the more the brain has a chance to refine the original experience. Because every memory is a re-creation, not a playback.

If I wasn't hard, I wouldn't be alive. If I couldn't ever be gentle, I wouldn't deserve to be alive.

I'm not a young man. I'm old, tired and full of no coffee.

People? People are chaotic quiddities living in one cave each. They pass the hours in amorous grudge and playback and thought experiment. At the campfire they put the usual fraction on exhibit, and listen to their own silent gibber about how they're feeling and how they're going down. We've been there. Death helps. Death gives us something to do. Because it's a fulltime job looking the other way.

So how big is this thing anyway?” Desideria asked Chayden made a sound of irritation. “You know, that’s not really a question I want to hear my younger sister ask a man, especially not one I consider a friend, while he’s lying bare-assed on my floor.” Hauk and Fain laughed. Desideria was less than amused. “Remember, brother, I’m currently the only one holding a weapon.” Caillen glared at him. “Really, Chay, why don’t you concentrate on the people trying to kill us right now? ’Preciate it, pun’kin.” He turned his attention to her. “About the size of your smallest fingernail.” Fain laughed again. “Damn, I should have been taping that response and using it for playback at every party from here until I die.

Every memory no matter how remote its subject takes place "now " at the moment it's called up in the mind. The more something is recalled the more the brain has a chance to refine the original experience because every memory is a re-creation not a playback.

Common sense is the guy who tells you that you ought to have had your brakes relined last week before you smashed a front end this week. Common sense is the Monday morning quarterback who could have won the ball game if he had been on the team. But he never is. He's high up in the stands with a flask on his hip. Common sense is the little man in a grey suit who never makes a mistake in addition. But it's always someone else's money he's adding up.

Guns never settle anything, I said. They are just a fast curtain to a bad second act

She put a hard-boiled sneer on her face and gave me plenty of time to get used to it

The subject was as easy to spot as a kangaroo in a dinner jacket

There was nothing to it. The Super Chief was on time, as it almost always is, and the subject was as easy to spot as a kangaroo in a dinner jacket.

If I wasn’t hard, I wouldn’t be alive. If I couldn’t ever be gentle, I wouldn’t deserve to be alive.

I was doing a cheap sneaky job for people I didn't like, but that's what you hire out for, chum. They pay the bills, you dig the dirt.

I wouldn't say she looked exactly wistful, but neither did she look as hard to get as a controlling interest in General Motors

I don't greatly care for passes this early in the morning.

The voice on the telephone seemed to be sharp and peremptory, but I didn't hear too well what it said, partly because I was only half awake and partly because I was holding the receiver upside down

The next hour was three hours long

He was California from the tips of his port wine loafers to the buttoned and tieless brown and yellow checked shirt inside his rough cream sports jacket.

I became skilled at covering my tracks, filling in the blanks. Sometimes the blanks were never filled. At other times, I would recall places where I had been or things I had done as if from a dream, which made the playback of my father and other men abusing me seem I even less real, fantasies conjured up from my imagination, not my memory. Perhaps somebody else’s memory. I didn’t think of myself as having mental-health problems. You don’t at sixteen. I thought of myself as being special, highly strung, moody.

A three-piece Mexican band was making the kind of music a Mexican band always makes. Whatever they play, it all sounds the same. They always sing the same song, and it always has nice open vowels an a drawn-out, sugary lilt, and the guy who sings it always strums on a guitar and has a lot to say about amor, mi corazon, a lady who is "linda" but very hard to convince, and he always has too long and too oily hair and when he isn't making with the love stuff he looks as if his knife work in an alley would be efficient and economical.

What rattled and thumped was a knotted towel full of melting ice cubes. Somebody who loved me very much had put them on the back of my head. Somebody who loved me less had bashed in the back of my skull. It could have been the same person. People have moods.

spinning playback head n. the disorienting feeling of meeting back up with an old friend and realizing that you've become different people on divergent paths-that even though they're standing right in front of you, the person you once knew isn't really there anymore.

Lucille has a dull life, Mr. Marlowe. She's stuck here with me and a PBX. And an itty-bitty diamond ring - so small I was ashamed to give it to her. But what can a man do? If he loves a girl, he'd like it to show on her finger." Lucille held her left hand up and moved it around to get a flash from the little stone. "I hate it," she said. "I hate it like I hate the sunshine and the summer and the bright stars and the full moon. That's how I hate it". I picked up the key and my suitcase and left them. A little more of that and I'd be falling in love with myself. I might even give myself a small unpretentious diamond ring.

I'm part Chinese, part Hawaiian, part Filipino, and part nigger. You'd hate to be me

Thorn swept a speculative glance over Nick’s body. “My girl’s calling you a liar.” “If my girl was here, she’d be calling you an idiot.” Thorn growled. Nick growled back. Caleb laughed at them both. “Simi, we should be filming this. We could make a killing on it.” “Already recorded, akri-demon. Just let the Simi know whenever you want the full-color playback.

Common sense says go home and forget it, no money coming in. Common sense always speaks too late. Common sense is the guy who tells you you ought to have had your brakes relined last week before you smashed a front end this week. Common sense is the Monday morning quarterback who could have won the ball game if he had been on the team. But he never is. He's high up in the stands with a flask on his hip. Common sense is the little man in a gray suit who never makes a mistake in addition. But it's always somebody else's money he's adding up

I opened the other envelope. It contained a photograph of a girl. The pose suggested a natural ease, or a lot of experience in being photographed. It showed darkish hair which might possibly have been red, a wide clear forehead, serious eyes, high cheekbones, nervous nostrils and a mouth which was not giving anything away. It was a fine-drawn, almost a taut face, and not a happy one

But the tape began right after that, with my saying, as though out of the blue, and as a joke, of course, only it didn't sound like a joke during the playback, that, in effect, the whole World was for sale to anyone who had Yen or was willing to perform fellatio.

She was quite a doll. She wore a white belted raincoat, no hat, a well-cherished head of platinum hair, booties to match the raincoat, a folding plastic umbrella, a pair of blue-gray eyes that looked at me as if I had said a dirty word. I helped her off with her raincoat. She smelled very nice. She had a pair of legs - so far as I could determine - that were not painful to look at. She wore night sheer stockings. I stared at them rather intently, especially when she crossed her legs and held out a cigarette to be lighted

Uh-huh. Could be,' I said. It was a spot for a paragraph of lucid prose. Henry Clarendon IV would have obliged. I didn't have a damn thing more to say.

Wherever I went, whatever I did, this was what I would come back to. A blank wall in a meaningless room in a meaningless house.

Don't kid yourself. You're a dirty low-down detective. Kiss me.

If I wasn’t hard, I wouldn’t be alive. If I couldn’t ever be gentle, I wouldn’t deserve to be alive.” I

On a dance floor half a dozen couples were throwing themselves around with the reckless abandon of a night watchman with arthritis.

How can such a hard man be so gentle? she asked wonderingly. If I wasn't hard, I wouldn't be alive. If I couldn't ever be gentle, I wouldn't deserve to be alive.

Javonen smiled - very slightly. Call it a down payment on a smile.

I now understand that all the people I have ever known have come into my life to teach me about love. I am coming to trust that every moment of affection I received has been carefully recorded in me, ready for playback. The love I received from others shows me how to love those who need it from me. This is how the people who loved me have helped write this book. Specific memories also come through about how much people have had to put up with from me. What did they see in me that made them stick with me when I was so damned afraid to return their love? Maybe they saw something lovable in me that I need to see in myself. Their uninterrupted love also helps me trust that I must have shown more love than I give myself credit for.

If God were omnipresent and omniscient in any literal sense, he wouldn't have bothered to make the universe at all. There is no success where there is no possibility of failure, no art without the resistance of the medium.

I never knew cocaine to improve anything. When the white lines came out, it was time to call it a night: the music could only get worse. If I joined in, the next day's playback would provide clear evidence of the deterioration of both the performances and of my critical ability to judge them. I suspect that the surge in cocaine's popularity explains - at least in part - why so many great sixties artists made such bad records in the following decade.

It was to be called Polasound, and the idea was truly eccentric: to attach an audio caption to each Polaroid integral picture. The idea seems to have been that you’d clip your picture into a little plastic carrier that held a strip of audiotape. For recording and playback, you’d pop each one into what looked like a small radio with a slot on top. The gizmo never got past the drawing board, but it’s one of the most bewitchingly weird notions Polaroid ever considered.

She was quite a doll. She wore a white belted raincoat, no hat, a well-cherished head of platinum hair, booties to match the raincoat, a folding plastic umbrella, a pair of blue-gray eyes that looked at me as if I had said a dirty word.

Some days it seems like every lowlife in town has Tail ’Em and Nail ’Em on their grease-stained Rolodex. A number of phone messages have piled up on the answering machine, breathers, telemarketers, even a few calls to do with tickets currently active. After some triage on the playback, Maxine returns an anxious call from a whistle-blower at a snack-food company over in Jersey which has been secretly negotiating with ex-employees of Krispy Kreme for the illegal purchase of top-secret temperature and humidity settings on the donut purveyor’s “proof box,” along with equally classified photos of the donut extruder, which however now seem to be Polaroids of auto parts taken years ago in Queens, Photoshopped and whimsically at that. “I’m beginning to think something’s funny about this deal,” her contact’s voice trembling a little, “maybe not even legit.” “Maybe, Trevor, because it’s a criminal act under Title 18?” “It’s an FBI sting operation!” Trevor screams. “Why would the FBI—” “Duh-uh? Krispy Kreme? On behalf of their brothers in law enforcement at all levels?” “All right. I’ll talk to them at the Bergen County DA, maybe they’ve heard something—” “Wait, wait, somebody’s coming, now they saw me, oh! maybe I better—” The line goes dead. Always happens.

With the new drapes covering the holographic walls, the mess hall was darker and gloomier than it should’ve been, but that couldn’t be helped. Ever since the Kerkopes dwarf twins had short-circuited the walls, the real-time video feed from Camp Half-Blood often fuzzed out, changing into playback of extreme dwarf close-ups – red whiskers, nostrils and bad dental work. It wasn’t helpful when you were trying to eat or have a serious conversation about the fate of the world. Percy sipped his syrup-flavoured orange juice. He seemed to find it okay. ‘I’m cool with fighting the occasional goddess, but isn’t Nike one of the good ones? I mean, personally, I like victory. I can’t get enough of it.

He heard a dresser drawer slide shut in the bedroom. She came out dressed all in black, as she almost always did, and carrying the three pieces of a plate that had fallen off the bed the night before; it was a light shade of blue, and sticky with pomegranate juice. He heard her dropping it into the kitchen trash can before she wandered past him into the living room. She stood in front of his sofa, running her fingers through her hair to test for dampness, her expression a little blank when he glanced up at her, and it seemed to him later that she’d been considering something, perhaps making up her mind. But then, he played the morning back so many times that the tape was ruined—later it seemed possible that she’d simply been thinking about the weather, and later still he was even willing to consider the possibility that she hadn’t stood in front of the sofa at all—had merely paused there, perhaps, for an instant that the stretched-out reel extended into a moment, a scene, and finally a major plot point. Later he was certain that the first few playbacks of that last morning were reasonably accurate, but after a few too many nights of lying awake and considering things, the quality began to erode. In retrospect the sequence of events is a little hazy, images running into each other and becoming slightly confused: she’s across the room, she’s kissing him for a third time—and why doesn’t he look up and kiss her? Her last kiss lands on his head—and putting on her shoes; does she kiss him before she puts on her shoes, or afterward? He can’t swear to it one way or the other. Later on he examined his memory for signs until every detail seemed ominous, but eventually he had to conclude that there was nothing strange about her that day. It was a morning like any other, exquisitely ordinary in every respect.

Researchers like Jonathan Winson, Gyorgy Buzsaki, Bruce McNaughton, and Matt Wilson believe memory consolidation occurs during sleep, and specifically that it is during sleep that the slow interleaving of information into cortical networks takes place. Recent studies support this notion. For example, Wilson and McNaughton recorded the activity of neurons in the rat hippocampus. Using technically sophisticated procedures, they were able to identify precise patterns of cell activity in the hippocampus as rats explored a novel environment. Subsequently, when the rats went to sleep, the neural patterns seemed to be repeated in the hippocampus, as if the rats were dreaming about the places they had explored. This is an impressive finding. Although it has not yet been demonstrated that the hippocampal playback during sleep is actually read and used by the cortex, the existing data are consistent with the possiblity.

system. At 12:04:03, every screen in the building strobed for eighteen seconds in a frequency that produced seizures in a susceptible segment of Sense/Net employees. Then something only vaguely like a human face filled the screens, its features stretched across asymmetrical expanses of bone like some obscene Mercator projection. Blue lips parted wetly as the twisted, elongated jaw moved. Something, perhaps a hand, a thing like a reddish clump of gnarled roots, fumbled toward the camera, blurred, and vanished. Subliminally rapid images of contamination: graphics of the building’s water supply system, gloved hands manipulating laboratory glassware, something tumbling down into darkness, a pale splash. . . . The audio track, its pitch adjusted to run at just less than twice the standard playback speed, was part of a month-old newscast detailing potential military uses of a substance known as HsG, a biochemical governing the human skeletal growth factor. Overdoses of HsG threw certain bone cells into overdrive, accelerating growth by factors as high as one thousand percent.

Every memory is a re-creation, not a playback. When we remember, we focus on certain facts and emotions, and become active participants in re-creating memories.

When I watched the playback, though, the commentary bothered me. Schiavone and Heenan talked about everything but the action in the ring.

Every memory, no matter how remote its subject, takes place "now",at the moment it's called up in the mind. The more something is recalled, the more the brain has a chance to refine the original experience, because every memory is a re-creation, not a playback.

faster but the picture remained entirely static. The stillness of a deserted office descended and held steady as time rushed by. “When do the cleaners come in?” Reacher asked. “Just before midnight,” Froelich said. “That late?” “They’re night workers. This is a round-the-clock operation.” “And there’s nothing else visible before then?” “Nothing at all.” “So spool ahead. We get the picture.” Froelich operated the buttons and shuttled between fast-forward with snow on the screen and regular-speed playback with a picture to check the timecode. At eleven-fifty P.M. she let the tape run. The counter clicked ahead, a second at a time. At eleven fifty-two there was motion at the far end of the corridor. A team of three people emerged from the gloom. There were two women and a man, all of them wearing dark overalls. They looked Hispanic. They were all short and compact, dark-haired, stoic. The man was pushing a cart. It had a black garbage bag locked into a hoop at the front, and trays stacked with cloths and spray bottles on shelves at the rear. One of the women was carrying a vacuum cleaner. It rode on

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Guns never settle anything,” I said. “They are just a fast curtain to a bad second act.

Of course I have no right to assume that I shall go to heaven. Sounds rather dull, as a matter of fact.

On the dance floor half a dozen couples were throwing themselves around with the reckless abandon of a night watchman with arthritis.

He was talking too much. People with unstable nerves are like that. One moment monosyllables, next moment a flood.

The theme of music making the dancer dance turns up everywhere in Astaire’s work. It is his most fundamental creative impulse. Following this theme also helps connect Astaire to trends in popular music and jazz, highlighting his desire to meet the changing tastes of his audience. His comic partner dance with Marjorie Reynolds to the Irving Berlin song “I Can’t Tell a Lie” in Holiday Inn (1942) provides a revealing example. Performed in eighteenth-century costumes and wigs for a Washington’s birthday–themed floor show, the dance is built around abrupt musical shifts between the light classical sound of flute, strings, and harpsichord and four contrasting popular music styles played on the soundtrack by Bob Crosby and His Orchestra, a popular dance band. Moderate swing, a bluesy trumpet shuffle, hot flag-waving swing, and the Conga take turns interrupting what would have been a graceful, if effete, gavotte. The script supervisor heard these contrasts on the set during filming to playback. In her notes, she used commonplace musical terms to describe the action: “going through routine to La Conga music, then music changing back and forth from minuet to jazz—cutting as he holds her hand and she whirls doing minuet.”13 Astaire and Reynolds play professional dancers who are expected to respond correctly and instantaneously to the musical cues being given by the band. In an era when variety was a hallmark of popular music, different dance rhythms and tempos cued different dances. Competency on the dance floor meant a working knowledge of different dance styles and the ability to match these moves to the shifting musical program of the bands that played in ballrooms large and small. The constant stylistic shifts in “I Can’t Tell a Lie” are all to the popular music point. The joke isn’t only that the classical-sounding music that matches the couple’s costumes keeps being interrupted by pop sounds; it’s that the interruptions reference real varieties of popular music heard everywhere outside the movie theaters where Holiday Inn first played to capacity audiences. The routine runs through a veritable catalog of popular dance music circa 1942. The brief bit of Conga was a particularly poignant joke at the time. A huge hit in the late 1930s, the Conga during the war became an invitation to controlled mayhem, a crazy release of energy in a time of crisis when the dance floor was an important place of escape. A regular feature at servicemen’s canteens, the Conga was an old novelty dance everybody knew, so its intrusion into “I Can’t Tell a Lie” can perhaps be imagined as something like hearing the mid-1990s hit “Macarena” after the 2001 terrorist attacks—old party music echoing from a less complicated time.14 If today we miss these finer points, in 1942 audiences—who flocked to this movie—certainly got them all. “I Can’t Tell a Lie” was funnier then, and for specifically musical reasons that had everything to do with the larger world of popular music and dance. As subsequent chapters will demonstrate, many such musical jokes or references can be recovered by listening to Astaire’s films in the context of the popular music marketplace.

Young adulthood afforded me a lot of time on my own. Sometimes on a night off from work, I would park my car in a supermarket lot and just sit there, listening to tapes on my battery powered, one speaker Norelco. That sounds lonely but it was really cool, actually. It was all I needed. I pretty much do the same thing now but with slightly better playback.

Thinking about the projector as a performance tool, a display mechanism, a playback machine, a decompressor of content, an image-enlarger, a sound amplifier, a recording device, and an audiovisual interface carries far richer interpretive possibilities than thinking about it as the poor cousin of the movie theater. It also helps us to explain more about why film has long mattered across many realms of cultural and institutional activity. Critically shifting how we conceptualize what a projector is and does opens a window to a wider array of other media devices that performed the work of storing, decompressing, and yielding content, as well as interfacing with users, viewers, and analysts. Drawing on innovations in precision mechanics, chemistry, optics, and electrical and eventually acoustic and magnetic engineering, projectors catalyzed alternate ways of presenting recorded images and sounds, converting celluloid and its otherwise indecipherable inscriptions into visible and audible content, usable data, productive lessons, and persuasive messaging. In doing so they shaped performance and presentation for audiences of

Granted, I didn’t understand most of what Reed said to Will during those three hours. For example, at one point, Reed said: “What if we were to saturate the vocals and make them extra dirty?” And I was like, Huh? Another time, Reed said, “We could turn up the flux on the Echo to around 300, playback level at zero. Let’s try that and see if it makes our balls vibrate.” It was another huh? But even without understanding the conversation, I could plainly surmise, thanks to Will’s reactions to Reed’s comments, Reed was making a powerful contribution to Will’s art.

When a woman is a really good driver she is just about perfect.

Watching the child gaze on his mother in fascination, putting on make-up out of love and curiosity, only then to be scolded, was completely illuminating for me. As I watched the little boy respond on the monitor, it became utterly clear – he was only a child. I was only a child when I was being made to feel that I was a problem. Watching this encounter from an objective distance, it was so obvious. In the lucky (and probably unlikely) event you have access to a willing cast of actors and a set like a scene from your childhood frozen in time, I would genuinely encourage any of you trying to work out your feelings around a difficult childhood to re-stage it with actors and watch it on playback. Otherwise, trying to see your memories is like trying to get a full view of a hand that’s planted on your face. Your perspective is all over the place.

He looked durable. Most fat men do.

There’s an enemy inside all of us, Nick, that wants to do us harm. It hates us passionately, and it wears us down with echoing insults we can’t escape. No matter what we try or what we do. It’s a never-ending playback that torments us when we’re alone. And especially at night when we’re trying to sleep and there’s no one else beside us.

Parfois, c'est dans cette chambre indécente que j'arrive le mieux à respirer.

Étonnamment, la vie, c'est peut-être juste une succession d'évènements qui se répètent. Et même si je trouve que la maladie et la mort sont des expériences un peu à part, dans le fond, elles sont si communes que ç'en est presque glaçant.

Tous les adultes savent qu'un bonheur peut être accompagné d'un malheur. Mais arrêter de le chercher à cause de ça, c'est vivre une vie aussi vide qu'un relevé de compte à sec. Et ça n'a plus aucun sens.

Toutes les tenancières de bar sont des philosophes.

- Je me demande s'il y avait une chance pour moi aussi d'avoir une relation comme ça avec toi. - Aucune. Parce qu'on se ressemble trop. Tu ne crois pas ?

Les gens heureux n'ont que faire de la littérature. J'en suis persuadé. Les êtres humains profondément heureux et ceux qui ne ressentent pas la tristesse, n'ont pas besoin des arts ou de la littérature dans leur vie.

Le bonheur, ça ne ressemblerait pas plutôt au croissant de lune ? Un côté plein et un côté vide.

There’s no one at the piano. No one in the room but me. I immediately pull my phone out of my pocket, open the app for the security cameras, and watch the playback of the last thirty seconds. The app shows me standing up from the piano. Stretching. I keep my eyes on the footage of the piano. As soon as I reach out for the door handle, middle C on the piano is pressed by nothing.

frowst.

omnipotent? How could he be? There’s so much suffering and almost always by the innocent. Why will a mother rabbit trapped in a burrow by a ferret put her babies behind her and allow her throat to be torn out? Why? In two weeks more she would not even recognize them. Do you believe in God, young man?

There are things that are facts, in a statistical sense, on paper, on a tape recorder, in evidence. And there are things that are facts because they have to be facts, because nothing makes any sense otherwise.

A good producer knows how to capture the best performances from musicians, create a cohesive sound, and make a record that sounds great on different playback systems. That’s really important with a band like Electrasy because they needed to transfer their raw, live power to radio, TV, and different formats.

When I told Mark about Jordan, he agreed that an obsessive focus on the quality of what you produce is the rule in professional music. “It trumps your appearance, your equipment, your personality, and your connections,” he explained. “Studio musicians have this adage: ‘The tape doesn’t lie.’ Immediately after the recording comes the playback; your ability has no hiding place.

People get too concerned about looking stupid on-screen and so they constantly check the playback. You can’t be scared of looking stupid. Instead, just be how your character is supposed to feel.

There was a woman. She was rich. She thought she wanted to marry me. It wouldn’t have worked. I’ll probably never see her again. But I remember.” “Let’s go,” she said quietly. “And let’s leave the memory in charge. I only wish I had one worth remembering.” On the way down to the Cadillac I didn’t touch her either. She drove beautifully. When a woman is a really good driver she is just about perfect.

How do we grasp the body, or any part of it, as a thing? As a “body” in the generic sense of a “body out there now”, in the sense that any animal, even the lower ones, would come across it as real in at least somewhat the same way that we do, physicalism is relevant. We can bump into it, trip over it, walk around it, etc. Yet we experience the body as body in another way, in the sense of being touched, being tripped over, etc. We can call this the sense of being a body, or better, of being embodied. Yet this sense has some oddities to it, in that the body that we can observe, say, in a mirror, or from a camera playback, is largely imaginary to the embodied self. When I say imaginary, I don't intend to imply that the person doesn't believe the body doesn't exist and is simply some sort of projection, what I'm trying to get at is that the way, as a self, I am embodied is that body responds to my imaginings so long as they coincide with a slight addition that is difficult to conceptualize. I can imagine getting up and going to the kitchen and it can remain purely imaginary, since in fact I'm still sitting on the sofa. However, with a slight modification that imagining of going to the kitchen can be effected in reality, it can be actualized as a bodily act of the self. I do get up and go to the kitchen, and I can't really say how I get my body to do that except that I imagine it and simultaneously will it, and it happens. From an experiential perspective though what I do as a self-conscious person is not very different between the two, whether I call the difference will, intention, etc., is such a slight difference it is difficult to describe what that specific and rather minimal difference in itself is. A further problem is that while we tend to distinguish “autonomous” neurological processes from conscious processes, there is no clear distinction, since an autonomous process like breathing can in fact be modified consciously, yet although I can to a degree control my breathing, it's difficult again to say precisely how I do so, except that I imagine breathing differently (slower, faster, deeper, etc.) and simultaneously intend to actualize it, and it happens.

While as a “body out there” the body as a concept-thing and the embodied self as a concept-thing coincide, as concept-things they not only do not coincide, they have no data points in common, although if the two are examined simultaneously there are many data points that immediately and directly correlate. It is this direct correlation between two conceptually completely distinct things that causes the appearance of the “Problem of Consciousness” as Chalmers states it. By now the degree of nonsense inherent in a view of reality such as that of Daniel Dennett should be obvious – as concept-things both the observed body of another or of oneself via a mirror or a camera playback and the direct experience of one's own embodied self only exist for a self insofar as it is conscious, and conscious in a specific mode. The notion of there being a difficulty in positing another as similarly conscious only exists in that reflective, abstracted mode, in our usual intuitive mode, the way in which we “get along” in realty as it presents itself to our experience, there is no difficulty whatsoever in distinguishing between non-conscious, conscious and reflexively self-conscious beings.

At twenty-nine a dish like this would almost certainly have been married.

Mexican band always makes. Whatever they play, it all sounds the same. They always sing the same song, and it always has nice open vowels and a drawn out sugary lilt, and the guy who sings it always strums on a guitar and has a lot to say about amor, mi corazón, a lady who is “linda” but very hard to convince, and he always has too long and too oily hair

and here is what may surprise you: Mr. Nixon walked over and lifted the playback head off the recording and said, ‘That man is the President of our country. Neither he nor his family should be the butt of such jokes.

La primera sensación fue que, si alguien me reñía, yo me echaría a llorar. La segunda, que la habitación era demasiado pequeña para mi cabeza. Sentía la frente muy lejos de la nuca, y los lados enormemente distantes el uno del otro, a pesar de lo cual un sordo latido pasaba de una sien a otra. Las distancias no significan nada hoy en día.

That’s what made the panics about huge zero-day security ruptures such a fright: the sudden knowledge that everything might have been auto-pwned by a random crim or asshole who used a skin-detection algorithm to catch you masturbating, keywords to flag your embarrassing conversations, harvesting your biometrics for playback attacks on your finances and social nets.

Great Sardaar" An ornamental piece of work by the Punjabi industry. Produced by Amritjit Singh Sran and Directed by Ranjeet Bal under the production house Apna Heritage &Sapphire Films presents to you "Great Sardaar" an Action/Drama film starring none other than the budding artist Dilpreet Dhillon and the multi talented Yograj Singh. This movie is an Action/Drama film in which the protagonist ends up with a series of challenges. The movie stars Dilpreet Dhillon as the lead along with Yograj singh who plays the role of (Dilpreet Dhillon) Gurjant's father. After watching the trailer one can surely say there's tasty substance beneath the froth, just enough to keep you hooked. "GREAT SRADAAR" is based on the true events about Major Shaitan Singh, who was awarded the Param Vir Chakra posthumously for his 'C' company's dig-in at Rezang La pass during the Sino-India conflict of 1962. This motivational movie is a Tribute to Sikkhism. It's really healing to see movies that are based on true events. It builds so much more compassion. Dilpreet Dhillon popularly known for his role in "once upon a time in Amritsar" has gained a great fan following. He is considered is one of the popular emerging male playback singer and actor in Punjabi music industry. And when it comes to Yograj Singh, he is not only a former Indian cricketer but also a boon to the Punjabi industry. Since the release of the official trailer on 7th of June,2017 which shows that the movie is action-packed and will leave the audience spellbound and wanting for more, the audience is eagerly waiting for the release of the movie.The trailer rolls by effortlessly and the Director has done an impeccable job. Ranjeet Bal evidently knew what he was doing and has ensured that every minute detail was taken care of particularly considering the genre he was treading. The audience will surely be sitting on the edge of their seats. Visual Effects Director- VFx Star has once again proved that there is nothing that will leave India from evolving in the field of technology. "Great Sardaar" which is set to be released on the 30th of June,2017 will be a very carefully structured story. The main question that will be raised is not what kind of world we live in, or what reality is like, rather what it has done to us.

Studies into the reactions of newborns to cries also cast fascinating light on their developing senses of self. When 1-day-old babies were played audio tapes of another neonate crying, as well as recordings of the wails of an 11-month-old, and a tape of their own cries, they cried most to howls of the neonate, but didn't respond to the playback of their own cries. Already at birth, it seems, babies can discriminate vocally between me and not-me, and are most sensitive to the group that most resembles them. Babies' cries can also be a guide to their psychological state. Entering a ward full of battered babies, voice teacher Patsy Rodenburg heard strangulated cries-'their experience of violence had already pierced their voices.

when Hurley, Chen, and Karim sat down to create YouTube, they built the service by stitching together elements from three different platforms: the Web itself, of course, but also Adobe’s Flash platform, which handled all the video playback, and the programming language Javascript, which allowed end users to embed video clips on their own sites. Their ability to build on top of these existing platforms explains why three guys could build YouTube in six months, while an army of expert committees and electronics companies took twenty years to make HDTV a reality.

Are you aware that deep-immersion playback can cause depression, anxiety, dissociative disorders and increase the likelihood of addictive behaviors? “Yes,” I reply. Are you aware that deep-immersion playback can trigger PTSD? “Yes, for fuck’s sake.” That’s what I’m afraid of.

The energy from that event is stored and released at any given moment, resulting in a playback just like a tape recording. The spirit usually acts out the event with no regard to the living in its presence. It’s similar to imprint theory in that it explains residual hauntings, but differs in the material that stores the energy. Imprint theory states our energies are stored on the fabric of the universe, which is composed of time and space by a process that we have yet to figure out. Stone tape theory states that certain types of rock store the energy of significant emotional and traumatic events inside them.

Several of the filmʼs key sound effects were accomplished musically, the most famous being the monsterʼs roars, which went beyond the sound departmentʼs capabilities.  Various animal noises were recorded and modified but nothing worked until Ifukube came to the rescue by using a contrabass (basically a large bass fiddle); however the only one in existence in all Japan was at the prestigious Tokyo Music Conservatoryʼs Music Department which was not about to loan-out their precious instrument for the purpose of making a monster movie.  So one night Ifukube “borrowedˮ it, removed its lowest string, then had pupil Sei Ikuno stroke the remaining strings with a coarse leather glove coated with resin.  The sound was then tape-recorded before being played backwards at a slower speed supplemented with echo-chamber mixing, and the different roars were achieved by changing the playback speeds, giving the monster a melodic quality (the sound of the monster using its radioactive ray was a sped-up cymbal roll).