Reboot Quotes

I think people immediately assumed I was yours so they stayed far away.' He met my eyes and smiled. 'I was. I am.' He leaned forward and brushed his lips to mine. 'Yours.

Do that thing where you look blank, like you have no feelings at all. I think that's just my face.

When you die, every single muscle in your body hurts. Your body has closed down because it thinks it's done, and when it gets rebooted, every inch of you hurts. Plus I'd had the shit beaten out of me with a baseball bat.

He turned to me. His expression was serious, but I liked how it softened slightly when he looked at me. Like the way he looked at me was different from how he looked at everyone else.

Are we going to do my leg next?" he asked. "Can I get some warning next time? A quick 'Hey I'm going to snap your bone with my bare hands right now. Brace yourself.

I love when I can reboot people when they are being mean to others...

He had been willing to die because he refused to take a life. But me, I contemplated shooting everyone.

It was true that all Reboots were attractive, in a way. After death, when the virus took hold and the body Rebooted, the skin cleared, the body sharpened, the eyes glowed. It was like pretty with a hint of deranged. Although my hint was more like a generous serving.

I need to backtrack. I need to reboot. Do not save changes

After all, computers crash, people die, relationships fall apart. The best we can do is breathe and reboot.

Want to dance? We have music this time. And I don't have to punch you when we finish.

Want to dance?" He scooped me into his arms before I could reply. "We have music this time. And I don't have to punch you when we finish." "You don't have to. But if I step on your feet too many times you can feel free.

Humans had a brightness to them, a glow that only death extinguished.

Life can be frustrating sometimes. Take a nap, exercise, meditate or do whatever it takes to 'reboot' your thinking. Happiness is just a thought away!

People that hold onto hate for so long do so because they want to avoid dealing with their pain. They falsely believe if they forgive they are letting their enemy believe they are a doormat. What they don’t understand is hatred can’t be isolated or turned off. It manifests in their health, choices and belief systems. Their values and religious beliefs make adjustments to justify their negative emotions. Not unlike malware infesting a hard drive, their spirit slowly becomes corrupted and they make choices that don’t make logical sense to others. Hatred left unaddressed will crash a person’s spirit. The only thing he or she can do is to reboot, by fixing him or herself, not others. This might require installing a firewall of boundaries or parental controls on their emotions. Regardless of the approach, we are all connected on this "network of life" and each of us is responsible for cleaning up our spiritual registry.

I need you to be better," I said. "You're really not concerned about him eating me?" he asked, holding his arm out again. "It'll grow back in a minute." "That's totally not the point. I'm traumatized.

Don’t make me punch you anymore, okay?” he whispered. I nodded, opening my eyes. “You have to punch other people, though.

When you travel, you're forced to have new thoughts. "Is this alley safe?" "Is this the right bus?" "Was this meat ever a house pet?" It doesn't even matter what the new thoughts are, it feels so good to just have some variety. And it's a reboot for your brain. I can feel the neurons making new connections again with new problems to solve, clawing their way back to their nimbler, younger days.

I still have the scars from when they captured me and beat me in the middle of the street." "You don't get scars." "Emotional scars then.

Maybe you need to take a look at who I am, instead of who you wish I were.

I sometimes wish I could “reboot”,’ said Sal. ‘Empty my head and start over.

How long will the patch take?” Venkat asked. “Should be pretty much instant,” Jack answered. “Watney entered the hack earlier today, and we confirmed it worked. We updated Pathfinder’s OS without any problems. We sent the rover patch, which Pathfinder rebroadcast. Once Watney executes the patch and reboots the rover, we should get a connection.” “Jesus, what a complicated process,” Venkat said. “Try updating a Linux server sometime,” Jack said.

Hey, nice landing!" Addie called, and I turned to see her standing next to her shuttle, grinning. I laughed and shrugged my shoulders. "They're all still alive!" "Sort of a low bar you set for yourself, huh?" Beth asked, playfully punching my shoulder as I helped her out of the shuttle.

There they are. Lieutenant Jack Loveday and Lieutenant Alex Wakeman. I’ve only seen their photos so far and the pictures that are in Demos’s head, but the truth is Demos did not do them justice. In fact, Demos’s head needs a tune up or a reboot or an entirely new operating system altogether.

Try not to scream when I break your bones. It bothers me. You can cry if you want; that's fine." He burst out laughing. I didn't realize that was a funny statement. "Got it," he said, trying unsuccessful to cover his grin. "Screaming, no. Crying, yes

You could've at least let me know you weren't dead by the way. I was actually kind of sad about that." "That's a pretty incredible sentiment, coming from you.

Sex and love went together. Not here. The teenage hormones were still here, but the feelings were gone.

Why do I have all these thoughts if the job I’m doing is mainly technical? Why do I have these thoughts if the reason I’m here is primarily to increase production? From what perspective are these thoughts productive? Was there an error in the update? If there was, I’d like to be rebooted.

We are all glorified motion sensors. Some things only become visible to us when they undergo change. We take for granted all the constant, fixed things, and eventually stop paying any attention to them. At the same time we observe and obsess over small, fast-moving, ephemeral things of little value. The trick to rediscovering constants is to stop and focus on the greater panorama around us. While everything else flits abut, the important things remain in place. Their stillness appears as reverse motion to our perspective, as relativity resets our motion sensors. It reboots us, allowing us once again to perceive. And now that we do see, suddenly we realize that those still things are not so motionless after all. They are simply gliding with slow individualistic grace against the backdrop of the immense universe. And it takes a more sensitive motion instrument to track this.

HS is supposedly a story that is also a game. In games, the characters die all the time. How many times did you let Mario fall in the pit before he saved the princess? Who weeps for these Marios. In games your characters die, but you keep trying and trying and rebooting and resetting until finally they make it. When you play a game this process is all very impersonal. Once you finally win, when all is said and done those deaths didn’t “count”, only the linear path of the final victorious version of the character is considered “real”. Mario never actually died, did he? Except the omniscient player knows better. HS seems to combine all the meaningless deaths of a trial-and-error game journey with the way death is treated dramatically in other media, where unlike our oblivious Mario, the characters are aware and afraid of the many deaths they must experience before finally winning the game.

I sort of liked the sound of bones breaking. It was like home.

I stayed awake and kept watch. Plus you look all cute and nonlethal when you sleep.

A human would lie on the ground sobbing. A Reboot didn’t acknowledge pain.

Thank you,” he said when he released me. “For coming with me. For not giving me shit about wanting to see my parents.” “I have most definitely given you shit.” “Then thank you for giving me minimal shit.

Good. I didn’t hear the four a.m. rooster alarm.” “I did,” Taylor said. “It went on for like ten minutes before I rebooted it.” “You rebooted a rooster?” “I think so. It stopped mid-crow.

Her smile faded to a more serious expression. "Is everything okay? With Callum?" "Fine," I said, taking a bite of meat and avoiding her eyes. "He's crazy about you, you know," she said softly, like I hadn't just told her things were fine. "I see other girls looking at him sometimes, and he doesn't even notice. He only sees you.

And this ‘rebooting’ business? Give it a good kicking, do you?” “Oh, no, of course, we…that is…well, yes, in fact,” said Ponder. “Adrian goes round the back and…er…prods it with his foot. But in a technical way,” he added.

Why is everyone hugging you? I asked. I don't know. I'm likeable?

Fine,” I said, holding my gun out. I didn’t need it anyway. With the way the guy was shaking, I could take his gun, break his neck, and dance on the body in two seconds flat.

Some of the Reboots were gazing at her with such awe and excitement that I wanted to slap them and tell them to stop being weird.

Your brain needs plenty of rest to function at it's optimal level. Go to sleep!

Do that thing where you look blank, like you have no feelings at all.” “I think that’s just my face.

I plan, you do the punching people in the face part.

I felt Leo's hand on my face, cool and smooth and utterly inhuman. He stroked back my hair, and his voice was curiously gentle when he said, "I would have been most . . . discommoded had you died." "Yeah. That's why I stay alive," I said, my native snark coming back online, as if I had rebooted that file, "to keep you from being 'discommoded'." I'd have to look that one up.

There was an extraordinary amount to process, and my brain was now functioning normally, or at least int the manner that I was accustomed to. The meltdown was perhaps the psychological equivalent of a reboot following an overload.

Only for a minute. I'll be right back." He plopped the baby in her lap and hopped to his feet. Wren held her at arm's length and frowned. She did not appreciate that, because she immediately began wailing. "Here," Wren said, thrusting her in my direction. "Take the mutant baby.

hadn’t been expecting a thank-you. I wasn’t even sure why I’d done it. I supposed he was my favorite HARC officer, but that was a bit like having a favorite vegetable. They were all pretty uninteresting.

THEY FOUND LEO AT THE TOP of the city fortifications. He was sitting at an open-air café, overlooking the sea, drinking a cup of coffee and dressed in…wow. Time warp. Leo’s outfit was identical to the one he’d worn the day they first arrived at Camp Half-Blood—jeans, a white shirt, and an old army jacket. Except that jacket had burned up months ago. Piper nearly knocked him out of his chair with a hug. “Leo! Gods, where have you been?” “Valdez!” Coach Hedge grinned. Then he seemed to remember he had a reputation to protect and he forced a scowl. “You ever disappear like that again, you little punk, I’ll knock you into next month!” Frank patted Leo on the back so hard it made him wince. Even Nico shook his hand. Hazel kissed Leo on the cheek. “We thought you were dead!” Leo mustered a faint smile. “Hey, guys. Nah, nah, I’m good.” Jason could tell he wasn’t good. Leo wouldn’t meet their eyes. His hands were perfectly still on the table. Leo’s hands were never still. All the nervous energy had drained right out of him, replaced by a kind of wistful sadness. Jason wondered why his expression seemed familiar. Then he realized Nico di Angelo had looked the same way after facing Cupid in the ruins of Salona. Leo was heartsick. As the others grabbed chairs from the nearby tables, Jason leaned in and squeezed his friend’s shoulder. “Hey, man,” he said, “what happened?” Leo’s eyes swept around the group. The message was clear: Not here. Not in front of everyone. “I got marooned,” Leo said. “Long story. How about you guys? What happened with Khione?” Coach Hedge snorted. “What happened? Piper happened! I’m telling you, this girl has skills!” “Coach…” Piper protested. Hedge began retelling the story, but in his version Piper was a kung fu assassin and there were a lot more Boreads. As the coach talked, Jason studied Leo with concern. This café had a perfect view of the harbor. Leo must have seen the Argo II sail in. Yet he sat here drinking coffee—which he didn’t even like—waiting for them to find him. That wasn’t like Leo at all. The ship was the most important thing in his life. When he saw it coming to rescue him, Leo should have run down to the docks, whooping at the top of his lungs. Coach Hedge was just describing how Piper had defeated Khione with a roundhouse kick when Piper interrupted. “Coach!” she said. “It didn’t happen like that at all. I couldn’t have done anything without Festus.” Leo raised his eyebrows. “But Festus was deactivated.” “Um, about that,” Piper said. “I sort of woke him up.” Piper explained her version of events—how she’d rebooted the metal dragon with charmspeak.

I think people immediately assumed I was yours so they stayed far away.” He met my eyes and smiled. “I was. I am.” He leaned forward and brushed his lips to mine. “Yours.

Sometimes you just have to do nothing for a day or two. Reboot. We’re human beings, not human doings,

It’s literally a reboot of the system—a biological control-alt-delete. Psychedelics

Clearly he’s decided that I’m after the Smith trust funds, like some skank from the Dynasty reboot.

Countries, like people, don't reboot to zero with a good shock; they just break and keep on breaking.

Careers increasingly come with a reboot button, and companies that realize this early possess a competitive talent advantage

By the time Rosie came back, I had performed a brain reboot, an exercise requiring a considerable effort of will. But I was now configured for adaptability.

The man thinks of multiverses, of splits, of the momentous moments when there is a new reality created. He wonders about retroactive continuity and reboots, the opportunity, in comic books, to start with clean slates, to write fresh, to correct the mistakes that were made. He feels now, looking at the new Shopwise, that it cannot offer the same kind of happiness as Fiesta Carnival, that the rifts and tears in his reality are things he must accept, and that he is happy with the girl, in another multiverse.

MIND TELLING US WHAT THE REALITY IS LIKE ROUND HERE?” The pen wrote: +++ On A Scale Of One To Ten—Query +++ “FINE,” Ridcully shouted. +++ Divide By Cucumber Error. Please Reinstall Universe And Reboot +++

Of course I know what she means. To make art in fandom is to follow your passion at the risk of never being taken seriously. I've written dozens of fics-put them together and you'd have several novels-but who knows what a college admissions officer will think of that as a pastime. Where does 12,000 Tumbler followers rate in relation to a spot in the National Honor Society in their minds? Every week I get anonymous messages in my inbox telling me I should write a real book. Well, haven't I already? What makes what I do different from "real writing"? Is it that I don't use original characters? I guess that makes every Hardy Boys edition, every Star Wars book, every spinoff, sequel, fairy-tale re-telling, historical romance, comic book reboot, and the music Hamilton "not real writing". Or is it that a real book is something printed, that you can hold in your hand, not something you write on the internet? Or is "real writing" something you sell in a store, not give away for free? No, I know it's none of these things. It's merely this: "real writing" is done by serious people, whereas fanfiction is written by weirdos, teenagers, degenerates, and women.

What is this to you? What are we doing? What do you want?” Garrett smiles that easy smile that makes me want to lick every single inch of his skin. “This is you and me. The reboot. We’ll talk and laugh and fuck until we can’t move, and probably fight at some point, too. And we’ll… be.” I reach for him. He releases my arms and rolls us to the side, my hands around his neck, my leg draped across his hip. “As for what I want. I want you, Callie. For as long as you’re here. For as long as you’ll let me have you. I want all of you.

And when I am in a new place, because I see everything, it is like when a computer is doing too many things at the same time and the central processor unit is blocked up and there isn't any space left to think about other things. And when I am in a new place and there are lots of people there it is even harder because people are not like cows and flowers and grass and they can talk to you and do things that you don't expect, so you have to notice everything that is in the place, and also you have to notice things that might happen as well. And sometimes when I am in a new place and there are lots of people there it is like a computer crashing and I have to close my eyes and put my hands over my ears and groan, which is like pressing CTRL + ALT + DEL and shutting down programs and turning the computer off and rebooting so that I can remember what I am doing and where I am meant to be going.

Lists make magic, the rhythm of itemised words: you do not list ten techniques, numbered and chantable, in austere prose appropriate for some early-millennium rebooted Book of Thoth, and not know that you have written an incantation.

Willingness to take risks and reactions to failure differ dramatically around the world. In some cultures the downside for failure is so high that individuals are allergic to taking any risks at all. These cultures associate shame with any type of failure, and from a young age people are taught to follow a prescribed path with a well-defined chance of success, as opposed to trying anything that might lead to disappointment. In some places, such as Thailand, someone who has failed repeatedly might even choose to take on a brand-new name in an attempt to reboot his or her entire life. In fact, in the 2008 Olympics, a Thai weight lifter attributed her victory to changing her name before the games.

Feeling entitled is the opposite of feeling grateful. Gratitude opens the heart, entitlement closes it.

It never ceased to amaze me just how fast one could lose everything.

I probably love you,” she said. I let out a surprised laugh. “Probably?” She laced our fingers together and tugged me toward the shuttle, glancing over her shoulder. “Probably. It’s hard to tell with me, you know?” I laughed again. “I probably love you, too.

When you travel you’re forced to have new thoughts. “Is this alley safe?” “Is this the right bus?” “Was this meat ever a house pet?” It doesn’t even matter what the new thoughts are, it feels so good to just have some variety. And it’s a reboot for your brain. I can feel the neurons making new connections again with new problems to solve, clawing their way back to their nimbler, younger days.

Cutting the power was necessary to reboot security and other systems, they said. Power will resume momentarily. Be ready to move when it does. Enjoy this music until then! The tablet began playing soothing instrumental versions of modern popular hits. Kiva didn’t know whether to shit or hum along.

Honesty is always Victorious, give it some time.

He made disgusted noises every time I touched him, so I fell entirely against him. He yelled and I ended up on the floor. It was not my most well-thought-out plan.

It’s not that great ideas got killed by clients… it’s that agencies killed their own great ideas by not presenting them well.

Now I was only confused as to why a person would want to kiss anyone but Callum. When he lifted his head from mine I

How do you take care of yourself?'' The reality is, for a long time, I didn't. But now I do.

the way to guide is to ask and not to tell.

one of the hallmarks of mental health is the ability to hold conflicting feelings.

I prefer to thin of it as rebooting my ovarian operating system.

Rebooting our enthusiasm is like deciding to become our own best coach, rather than our own worst enemy.

Watney entered the hack earlier today, and we confirmed it worked. We updated Pathfinder’s OS without any problems. We sent the rover patch, which Pathfinder rebroadcast. Once Watney executes the patch and reboots the rover, we should get a connection.” “Jesus, what a complicated process,” Venkat said. “Try updating a Linux server sometime,” Jack said. After a moment of silence, Tim said, “You know he was telling a joke, right? That was supposed to be funny.” “Oh,” said Venkat. “I’m a physics guy, not a computer guy.” “He’s not funny to computer guys, either.

Should we type, text, call, email, swipe, pin, tweet, Skype, FaceTime, Zoom, Message, or yell at our digital assistant to get it done, whatever it is? And in what order should all of that happen? (Oh, and before we can get started, we’ll have to upgrade, update, reboot, log in, authenticate, reset our password, clear cookies, empty our cache, and sacrifice our firstborn before we can get where we’re going . . . where was that again?)

no one should ever underestimate the appeal of an opiate high. Far as I can tell, it’s a beautiful thing. The way they talk about it, it’s the best thing ever. For some folks it hits the spot so hard it reboots their lives.

Charisma and people’s prior beliefs about their powers are key: if you’re told that someone is renowned the world over for their abilities as a hypnotist or spiritual healer, your brain will be more likely to surrender executive control to them.

Lately I wake in the night and a few panicked seconds pass in which I can't locate myself. I could tell you my name, certainly, but not which version of me I'm dealing with... Mostly I am nobody when I wake up, just a consciousness in the darkness trying to piece it all together. It is a strange, free-floating moment, an anchoring of the self. It is an interlude, like held breath. Eventually it releases, the lungs fill, the world floods in. A reassuring upload of facts. A reboot. I am back.

A billionaire plutocrat is now sitting in the White House. Democracy has been overthrown. A right wing coup d’état has taken place. The Confederacy has defeated the Union. Racist Nazis are now running America, calling themselves “patriots”. They are the enemies of the People, the enemies of America, and the enemies of the world. The time has come to get rid of the global elite and their brainwashed right wing puppets. The time has come for the people to take control of their own destiny. We need to reboot the world.

It’s ironic that the Tea Party populists, most of whom believe that they are furthering the American ideal of “rugged individualism,” are supporting mega-corporate-friendly policies like Reaganomics and Clintonomics and are making it very difficult for individuals to be anything other than drones in a giant corporate-run economic machine. And, on the flipside, those countries that call themselves “democratic socialist” in their organization—Finland, Germany, Japan, the Netherlands, Sweden—actually provide a deep and fertile soil into which entrepreneurs may plant new businesses.

ADVICE ON SLEEPING “Many people will tell you that they can’t nap. The one thing I learned from a single yoga class I took many years ago was to slow down my breathing. I just keep breathing slowly in and out and don’t think I must fall asleep. Instead, I think things like, Sleepytime! and just focus on my breathing. I also make sure it’s dark in the room, or I cover my eyes with one of those airplane sleep masks. Also, I set my phone alarm for twenty-one minutes because turning a short power nap into a longer sleep can leave you groggy. This amount of time gives me what’s basically a cognitive reboot.” —Amy Alkon, syndicated columnist and catnap queen

Common hatred can bond uncommon individuals.

Both the fear of failure and the fear of rejection can be canceled by saying the words I like myself.

That’s the problem of today’s generation. You want all the things quickly. You all hate to struggle. You see the life into two extremes, either success or failure, either rich or broke, either victory or defeat. You see the life in all black and white, but there are various shades of gray in-between two extremes of black and white and life happens to be there.

I’m going to tell you something, there’s country poor, and there’s city poor. As much of my life as I’d spent in front of a TV thinking Oh, man, city’s where the money trees grow, I was seeing more to the picture now. I mean yes, that is where they all grow, but plenty of people are sitting in that shade with nothing falling on them. Chartrain was always discussing “hustle,” and it took me awhile to understand he grew up hungry for money like it was food. Because for him, they’re one and the same. Not to run the man down, but he wouldn’t know a cow from a steer, or which of them gave milk. No desperate men Chartrain ever knew went out and shot venison if they were hungry. They shot liquor store cashiers. Living in the big woods made of steel and cement, without cash, is a hungrier life than I knew how to think about. I made my peace with the place, but never went a day without feeling around for things that weren’t there, the way your tongue pushes into the holes where you’ve lost teeth. I don’t just mean cows, or apple trees, it runs deeper. Weather, for instance. Air, the way it smells from having live things breathing into it, grass and trees and I don’t know what, creatures of the soil. Sounds, I missed most of all. There was noise, but nothing behind it. I couldn’t get used to the blankness where there should have been bird gossip morning and evening, crickets at night, the buzz saw of cicadas in August. A rooster always sounding off somewhere, even dead in the middle of Jonesville. It’s like the movie background music. Notice it or don’t, but if the volume goes out, the movie has no heart. I’d oftentimes have to stop and ask myself what season it was. I never realized what was holding me to my place on the planet of earth: that soundtrack. That, and leaf colors and what’s blooming in the roadside ditches this week, wild sweet peas or purple ironweed or goldenrod. And stars. A sky as dark as sleep, not this hazy pinkish business, I’m saying blind man’s black. For a lot of us, that’s medicine. Required for the daily reboot.

If you could give up the need for measurable progress, if you give up the pursuit of purpose and meaning,” I continued, adding, quietly to myself—“and the need to build an exhaustible supply of lemon drops’’—“and then focused on doing what is right and true each day, it feels to me that you’d live in congruency with your truest self, where the meaning of your life was a function of the meaning of each day. And each day, an expression of your life.

He eased the door open, scanned right and left, then slid into the corridor and into the room across it. Machines beeped and hummed, monitoring whatever poor bastard lay in the bed. Staying out of the range of the camera, he slithered against the wall until he could aim the jammer he carried. Even as the alarm sounded he was out and into the next room before the ICU team came running. He repeated the process, grinning as the medicals ran by. He hit a third for good measure, then made the dash to 8-C. By the time they determined it was an electronic glitch, rebooted, did whatever they did for the poor bastards in beds, he’d have done what he’d come to do and be gone. He moved into 8-C. They kept the lights dim, he noted. Rest and quiet was the order of the day. Well, she’d get plenty of both where he was sending her. He moved to the bed, pulled out the vial in his pocket. “Should’ve kept your nose out of our business, stupid bitch.

One of the best things about owning a brain is how you often seem to phase out of normalcy and briefly see your culture with a weirdly objective frame of mind. At some point every child realizes money is made up of slips of paper with no intrinsic value, and wonders why aloud. So, too, will children ask adults what’s up with shaking hands, or putting your fork on one side of the plate, or saying “Bless you” after a sneeze. Parents apply the glue that holds a culture together when explaining to a child that his socks must match, or that punctuality is paramount, or that picking his nose in public is a terrible habit. When a parent tells a boy he shouldn’t play with dolls, or a girl to wait for a boy to ask her to the prom, they are enforcing norms. When a kid asks, “But, why?” she is rightfully bringing to the attention of the adult world that all this stuff is just made up and mostly arbitrary nonsense often clung to for some long-forgotten reason. That feeling you sometimes get when you snap out of your culture for a moment, when the operating system crashes and slowly reboots, has been the subject of literature and drama for thousands of years.

Strong back and open heart. This is warrior stance, I tell him. The strong back of fiscal discipline. The strong back of clarity and vision, of drive and direction. The strong back of delegating responsibility and holding people accountable. The strong back of knowing right from wrong. But it’s also the open heart. It’s giving a shit about people, purpose, meaning. It’s working toward something greater than merely boosting your ego, greater than just soothing your worries and chasing your demons away. It’s leading from within, drawing on the core of your being, on all that has shaped you.

One of the prostitutes, an Asian who can’t be over twenty, with boobs that can’t be real, with a sudden interest in him that can’t be sincere, approaches him as he walks back into the penthouse and slides the door shut. “Wie lautet dein name?” she asks. What is your name? He smiles. She is just flirting, playing a part. She doesn’t care what he tells her. But there are people who would pay anything, or do anything, to know the answer to her question. And just once, he’d like to let down his guard and answer the question truthfully. I am Suliman Cindoruk, he’d like to say. And I’m about to reboot the world.

My co-founder, Ali Schultz, taught me the wisdom of horses. Horses, with their supernatural ability to use their limbic nervous systems to discern truth and congruency, do not base their choice of the leader of their herd on strength or intellectual wisdom. Nor is their choice based on which member might keep the herd safe from a predator wolf. They choose the one who feels the group best and who cares the most. They choose the horse—usually a mare—who is most capable of holding that care in a way that calms the whole group. They’re marked by the attunement to the inner and outer needs of those they have the honor to serve and lead.

When a smart phone / laptop’s operating system doesn’t work smoothly, we re-boot or restart it, basically we re-begin; similarly to get over the struggles or failures, we must re-start the process by analyzing the beginning of our approach, do not try to make things work out in the middle of a crisis, because it might not be the place which triggered the problem.

Time and again I’ve watched hearts break open, so that true and authentic leaders can emerge. But that process depends on a brave first step: facing the reality of what is and not being deluded by the powerful, seductive dreams of what can be. Of course, this doesn’t mean there’s no role for dreams. We need dreams. But willfully ignoring what is true is not the same as dreaming. It’s delusion; and delusion leads to terrible decisions and, even worse, the destruction of trust. The first act of becoming a leader is to recognize this being so. From that place, we get to recognize what skills we need to develop and who we really are (and are not) as leaders, and to share our truth in a way that creates authentic, powerful relationships—with our peers, colleagues, and families. Grant us leaders who can do this and we just may create institutions that are less violent to the self, our communities, and our planet.

[…] if sophistication is the ability to put a smile on one's existential desperation, then the fear of a glossy sheen is actually the fear that surface equals depth. *** […] we wake up, we do something—anything—we go to sleep, and we repeat it about 22,000 more times, and then we die. *** Part of our new boredom is that our brain doesn't have any downtime. Even the smallest amount of time not being engaged creates a spooky sensatino that maybe you're on the wrong track. Reboot your computer and sit there waiting for it to do its thing, and within seventeen seconds you experience a small existential implosion when you remember that fifteen years ago life was nothing but this kind of moment. Gosh, mabe I'll read a book. Or go for a walk. Sorry. Probably not going to happen. Hey, is that the new trailer for Ex Machina? *** In the 1990s there was that expression, "Get a life!" You used to say it to people who were overly fixating on some sort of minutia or detail or thought thread, and by saying, "Get a life," you were trying to snap them out of their obsession and get them to join the rest of us who are still out in the world, taking walks and contemplating trees and birds. The expression made sense at the time, but it's been years since I've heard anyone use it anywhere. What did it mean then, "getting a life"? Did we all get one? Or maybe we've all not got lives anymore, and calling attention to one person without a life would put the spotlight on all of humanity and our now full-time pursuit of minutia, details and tangential idea threads. *** I don't buy lottery tickets because they spook me. If you buy a one-in-fifty-million chance to win a cash jackpoint, you're simultaneously tempting fate and adding all sorts of other bonus probabilities to your plance of existence: car crashes, random shootings, being struck by a meteorite. Why open a door that didn't need opening? *** I read something last week and it made sense to me: people want other people to do well in life but not too well. I've never won a raffle or prize or lottery draw, and I can't help but wonder how it must feel. One moment you're just plain old you, and then whaam, you're a winner and now everyone hates you and wants your money. It must be bittersweet. You hear all those stories about how big lottery winners' lives are ruined by winning, but that's not an urban legend. It's pretty much the norm. Be careful what you wish for and, while you're doing so, be sure to use the numbers between thirty-two and forty-nine.

LEADING LESSONS Rejection is an illusion. It’s all in your head. It was never about Rachael; it was always about me. So maybe I didn’t fit her picture of the perfect dance partner. We were no longer a match--so what? At the time, the rejection hurt like hell and I threw myself a big ol’ pity party. But here’s the thing: No one can reject you. No one can dump you. It’s just a decision, and maybe you don’t like it. I was the one believing I was a victim instead of realizing how blessed my life was. If you’re feeling rejected, you’re looking at things all wrong. Just because someone says no, just because someone chooses another person over you, doesn’t mean you’re not good enough. There isn’t one successful person out there who hasn’t racked up his or her share of rejection. That said, no one likes hearing no. But what are you going to do with that no? Are you going to let it destroy your self-esteem? Or are you going to keep pushing forward, following your passion? Dancers deal with a lot of rejection--I know this now, and I see the rejections as part of my journey. Keep doing what you’re doing and do it well--don’t worry about pleasing anyone but yourself. Sometimes that no can be a wake-up call, a chance for you to reassess, refocus, reboot. I’m grateful Rachael and her family gave me my walking papers. That rejection opened me up to so much more.

Here’s how I’ve always pictured mitigated free will: There’s the brain—neurons, synapses, neurotransmitters, receptors, brainspecific transcription factors, epigenetic effects, gene transpositions during neurogenesis. Aspects of brain function can be influenced by someone’s prenatal environment, genes, and hormones, whether their parents were authoritative or their culture egalitarian, whether they witnessed violence in childhood, when they had breakfast. It’s the whole shebang, all of this book. And then, separate from that, in a concrete bunker tucked away in the brain, sits a little man (or woman, or agendered individual), a homunculus at a control panel. The homunculus is made of a mixture of nanochips, old vacuum tubes, crinkly ancient parchment, stalactites of your mother’s admonishing voice, streaks of brimstone, rivets made out of gumption. In other words, not squishy biological brain yuck. And the homunculus sits there controlling behavior. There are some things outside its purview—seizures blow the homunculus’s fuses, requiring it to reboot the system and check for damaged files. Same with alcohol, Alzheimer’s disease, a severed spinal cord, hypoglycemic shock. There are domains where the homunculus and that brain biology stuff have worked out a détente—for example, biology is usually automatically regulating your respiration, unless you must take a deep breath before singing an aria, in which case the homunculus briefly overrides the automatic pilot. But other than that, the homunculus makes decisions. Sure, it takes careful note of all the inputs and information from the brain, checks your hormone levels, skims the neurobiology journals, takes it all under advisement, and then, after reflecting and deliberating, decides what you do. A homunculus in your brain, but not of it, operating independently of the material rules of the universe that constitute modern science. That’s what mitigated free will is about. I see incredibly smart people recoil from this and attempt to argue against the extremity of this picture rather than accept its basic validity: “You’re setting up a straw homunculus, suggesting that I think that other than the likes of seizures or brain injuries, we are making all our decisions freely. No, no, my free will is much softer and lurks around the edges of biology, like when I freely decide which socks to wear.” But the frequency or significance with which free will exerts itself doesn’t matter. Even if 99.99 percent of your actions are biologically determined (in the broadest sense of this book), and it is only once a decade that you claim to have chosen out of “free will” to floss your teeth from left to right instead of the reverse, you’ve tacitly invoked a homunculus operating outside the rules of science. This is how most people accommodate the supposed coexistence of free will and biological influences on behavior. For them, nearly all discussions come down to figuring what our putative homunculus should and shouldn’t be expected to be capable of.

The ingestion of carbohydrates, especially the refined grains and sugars that are so prominent in the modern diet, causes a spike in blood sugar and a temporary energy boost. Then, because a glucose overdose is toxic in the bloodstream, insulin floods the bloodstream to remove any glucose you don’t burn immediately and stores it as either glycogen (in the liver and muscle tissues) or in the fat cells as triglyceride (the storage form of fat). When insulin removes glucose from your bloodstream and transports it into storage, you experience the familiar sugar crash and a craving for quick-energy carbohydrates. You have plenty of fat energy locked away in storage, but a high-insulin-producing diet prevents you from being able to access it. Instead, you become reliant on your next snack or meal for energy, and you exist in a state of carbohydrate dependency.