Scan Picture Quotes

memories were tricky things…they weren’t stable. they changed with perception over time. …they shifted, and [she] understood how the passage of time affected them. the hard working striver might recall his childhood as one filled with misery and hardship marred by the cat calls and mae calling of playground bullies, but later, have a much more forgiving understanding of past injustices. the handmade clothes he had been forced to wear, became a testament to his mother’s love. each patch and stitch a sign of her diligence, instead of a brand of poverty. he would remember father staying up late to help him with his homework – the old old man’s patience and dedication, instead of the sharpness of his temper when he returned home – late- from the factory. it went the other way as well. [she] had scanned thousands of memories of spurned women, whose handsome lovers turned ugly and rude. roman noses, perhaps too pointed. eyes growing small and mean. while the oridnary looking boys who had become their husbands, grew in attractiveness as the years passed, so that when asked if it was love at first site, the women cheerfully answered yes. memories were moving pictures in which meaning was constantly in flux. they were stories people told themselves.

Kerri turned each page slowly, lifting the next page and scanning the pictures

Yes. Can you print these pictures and make sure the others have copies? Particularly Barry. He’s Locator in Chief on this one.” “I’ll do it right now. I’m packing a Fujitsu ScanSnap. Great little on-the-go machine.

There's something so freeing about cutting myself loose from technology in some small way. No more stressing over profile pictures or whether my social media feeds reflect the kind of golden, idealized life I want everyone to think I have. No more virus scans or junk mail or counting likes. If I want to look something up, I go to the library. If I want to talk to someone, I talk to them.

No one was there, he realized. The room was his. He felt the creature inside him—which he pictured as slight and raggedy and lemurlike, quick-reflexed and ready to sprint, its dark wet eyes forever scanning the landscape for future dangers—relax and sag to the ground.

We are not our stuff.  We are more than our possessions. Our memories are within us, not our things. Our stuff weighs on us mentally and emotionally. Old photographs can be scanned. You can take pictures of items you want to remember. Items that are sentimental for us can be useful to others. Letting go is freeing.

In 90% of cases, you can start with one of the two most effective ways to open a speech: ask a question or start with a story. Our brain doesn’t remember what we hear. It remembers only what we “see” or imagine while we listen. You can remember stories. Everything else is quickly forgotten. Smell is the most powerful sense out of 4 to immerse audience members into a scene. Every sentence either helps to drive your point home, or it detracts from clarity. There is no middle point. If you don’t have a foundational phrase in your speech, it means that your message is not clear enough to you, and if it’s not clear to you, there is no way it will be clear to your audience. Share your failures first. Show your audience members that you are not any better, smarter or more talented than they are. You are not an actor, you are a speaker. The main skill of an actor is to play a role; to be someone else. Your main skill as a speaker is to be yourself. People will forgive you for anything except for being boring. Speaking without passion is boring. If you are not excited about what you are talking about, how can you expect your audience to be excited? Never hide behind a lectern or a table. Your audience needs to see 100% of your body. Speak slowly and people will consider you to be a thoughtful and clever person. Leaders don’t talk much, but each word holds a lot of meaning and value. You always speak to only one person. Have a conversation directly with one person, look him or her in the eye. After you have logically completed one idea, which usually is 10-20 seconds, scan the audience and then stop your eyes on another person. Repeat this process again. Cover the entire room with eye contact. When you scan the audience and pick people for eye contact, pick positive people more often. When you pause, your audience thinks about your message and reflects. Pausing builds an audiences’ confidence. If you don’t pause, your audience doesn’t have time to digest what you've told them and hence, they will not remember a word of what you've said. Pause before and after you make an important point and stand still. During this pause, people think about your words and your message sinks in. After you make an important point and stand still. During this pause, people think about your words and your message sinks in. Speakers use filler words when they don’t know what to say, but they feel uncomfortable with silence. Have you ever seen a speaker who went on stage with a piece of paper and notes? Have you ever been one of these speakers? When people see you with paper in your hands, they instantly think, “This speaker is not sincere. He has a script and will talk according to the script.” The best speeches are not written, they are rewritten. Bad speakers create a 10 minutes speech and deliver it in 7 minutes. Great speakers create a 5 minute speech and deliver it in 7 minutes. Explain your ideas in a simple manner, so that the average 12-year-old child can understand the concept. Good speakers and experts can always explain the most complex ideas with very simple words. Stories evoke emotions. Factual information conveys logic. Emotions are far more important in a speech than logic. If you're considering whether to use statistics or a story, use a story. PowerPoint is for pictures not for words. Use as few words on the slide as possible. Never learn your speech word for word. Just rehearse it enough times to internalize the flow. If you watch a video of your speech, you can triple the pace of your development as a speaker. Make videos a habit. Meaningless words and clichés neither convey value nor information. Avoid them. Never apologize on stage. If people need to put in a lot of effort to understand you they simply won’t listen. On the other hand if you use very simple language you will connect with the audience and your speech will be remembered.

My prolonged study of these photographs led me to appreciate the importance of preserving certain moments for prosperity, and as time moved forwards I also came to see what a powerful influence these framed scenes exerted over us as we went about our daily lives. To watch my uncle pose my brother a maths problem, and at the same time to see him in a picture taken thirty-two years earlier; to watch my father scanning the newspaper and trying, with a half-smile, to catch the tail of a joke rippling across the crowded room, and at that very same moment to see a picture of him to me that my grandmother had framed and frozen these memories so that we could weave them into the present.When, in the tones ordinarily preserved for discussing the founding of a nation, my grandmother spoke of my grandfather who had died so young, and pointed at the frames on the tables and the walls, it seemed that she, like me, was pulled in two direction , wanting to get on with life but also longing to capture the moment of perfection, savouring the ordinary life but still honouring the ideal. But even as I pondered these dilemmas-if you plucked a special moment from life and framed it, were you defying death, decay and the passage of time, or were you submitting to them? - I grew very bored with them.

No one was there, he realized. The room was his. He felt the creature inside him--which he pictured as slight and raggedy and lemur-like, quick-reflexed and ready to sprint, its dark wet eyes forever scanning the landscape for future dangers--relax and sag to the ground.

No one was there, he realized. The room was his. He felt the creature inside him - which he had pictured as slight and raggedy and lemur-like, quick-reflexed and ready to sprint, its dark wet eyes forever scanning the landscape for future dangers - relax and sag to the ground.

Casting people look at your picture, then at you to see if it matches. Are you actually a girl? Do you have blond hair? You sporting a rack of any significance? If you’re what they are looking for, they turn over to your résumé, scan your credits and your lies, then scribble down this magic word: callback.” Bob rolled paper into the old Royal, adjusted the margins and tabs, and within minutes had typed out a crisp, clear, and clean résumé that made Sue look like she was as experienced a dreamer as ever hopped a bus to the big city. She could boast of thirty roles. The one thing missing from the paper was her name at the top.

On our way down, we passed a two-story villa, hidden in a thicket of Chinese parasol trees, magnolia, and pines. It looked almost like a random pile of stones against the background of the rocks. It struck me as an unusually lovely place, and I snapped my last shot. Suddenly a man materialized out of nowhere and asked me in a low but commanding voice to hand over my camera. He wore civilian clothes, but I noticed he had a pistol. He opened the camera and exposed my entire roll of film. Then he disappeared, as if into the earth. Some tourists standing next to me whispered that this was one of Mao's summer villas. I felt another pang of revulsion toward Mao, not so much for his privilege, but for the hypocrisy of allowing himself luxury while telling his people that even comfort was bad for them. After we were safely out of earshot of the invisible guard, and I was bemoaning the loss of my thirty-six pictures, Jin-ming gave me a grin: "See where goggling at holy places gets you!" We left Lushan by bus. Like every bus in China, it was packed, and we had to crane our necks desperately trying to breathe. Virtually no new buses had been built since the beginning of the Cultural Revolution, during which time the urban population had increased by several tens of millions. After a few minutes, we suddenly stopped. The front door was forced open, and an authoritative-looking man in plainclothes squeezed in. "Get down! Get down!" he barked. "Some American guests are coming this way. It is harmful to the prestige of our motherland for them to see all these messy heads!" We tried to crouch down, but the bus was too crowded. The man shouted, "It is the duty of everyone to safeguard the honor of our motherland! We must present an orderly and dignified appearance! Get down! Bend your knees!" Suddenly I heard Jin-ming's booming voice: "Doesn'T Chairman Mao instruct us never to bend our knees to American imperialists?" This was asking for trouble. Humor was not appreciated. The man shot a stern glance in our direction, but said nothing. He gave the bus another quick scan, and hurried off. He did not want the "American guests' to witness a scene. Any sign of discord had to be hidden from foreigners. Wherever we went as we traveled down the Yangtze we saw the aftermath of the Cultural Revolution: temples smashed, statues toppled, and old towns wrecked. Litfie evidence remained of China's ancient civilization. But the loss went even deeper than this. Not only had China destroyed most of its beautiful things, it had lost its appreciation of them, and was unable to make new ones. Except for the much-scarred but still stunning landscape, China had become an ugly country.

This Is a Photograph of Me It was taken some time ago. At first it seems to be a smeared print: blurred lines and grey flecks blended with the paper; then, as you scan it, you see in the left-hand corner a thing that is like a branch: part of a tree (balsam or spruce) emerging and, to the right, halfway up what ought to be a gentle slope, a small frame house. In the background there is a lake, and beyond that, some low hills. (The photograph was taken the day after I drowned. I am in the lake, in the centre of the picture, just under the surface. It is difficult to say where precisely, or to say how large or small I am: the effect of water on light is a distortion but if you look long enough, eventually you will be able to see me.)

As you take the stairs down, away from the scanning department, you feel the notion, the idea of the child leaving you with each step. You feel its fingers loosening, disentangling themselves from yours. You sense its corporeality disintegrating, becoming mist. Gone is the child with blond or dark or auburn hair; gone is the person they might have been, the children they themselves might have had. Gone is that particular coded mix of your and your husband’s genes. Gone is the little brother or sister you pictured for your son. Gone is the knitted rabbit, wrapped and ready in tissue paper, pushed to the back of a cupboard, because you cannot bring yourself to throw it out or give it away. Gone are your plans for and expectations of the next year of your life. Instead of a baby, there will be no baby.

He turned over the application, and Lauren watched him scanning it, his gaze nearing the bottom where she had listed her job preferences. She knew the exact instant he spotted what she had written. "What the...!" he said, astonished, and then he burst out laughing. "Weatherby and I are going to have to be careful. Which of our jobs do you want most?" "Neither," Lauren said shortly. "I did that because on my way to the interview at Sinco,I decided I didn't want to work there after all." "So you purposely flunked your tests,is that it?" "That's it." "Lauren..." he began in a soft seductive voice that instantly put her on guard. "I've had the dubious pleasure of reading through your file," she clarified, at his stunned look. "I know all about Bebe Leonardos and the French movie star.I even saw the picture of you that was taken with Ericka Moran the day after you sent me away because a "business aquaintance' was coming to see you." "And," he concluded evenly, "you were hurt." "I was disgusted," Lauren shot back, refusing to admit to any of the anguish she'd felt.

These stories are real, the dreams are real, yet the dilemmas each person faces are founded on the presences that haunt from their past. We see again the twin mechanisms present in all relationships: projection and transference. Each of them, meeting any stranger, reflexively scans the data of history for clues, expectations, possibilities. This scanning mechanism is instantaneous, mostly unconscious, and then the lens of history slips over one's eyes. This refractive lens alters the reality of the other and brings to consciousness a necessarily distorted picture. Attached to that particular lens is a particular history, the dynamics, the script, the outcomes of which are part of the transferred package. Freud once humorously speculated that when a couple goes to bed there are six people jammed together because the spectral presences of the parents are unavoidable. One would have to add to this analogy the reminder that those parents also import their own relational complexes from their parents, so we quickly have fourteen underfoot, not to mention the persistence of even more ancestral influences. How could intimate relationships not be congested arenas? As shopworn as the idea seems, we cannot overemphasize the importance of primal imagoes playing a domineering role in our relational patterns. They may be unconscious, which grants them inordinate power, or we may flee them, but they are always present. Thus, for example, wherever the parent is stuck—such as Damon's mother who only equates sexuality with the perverse and the unappealing, and his father who stands de-potentiated and co-opted—so the child will feel similarly constrained or spend his or her life trying to break away (“anything but that”) and still be defined by someone else's journey. How could Damon not feel depressed, then, at his own stuckness, and how could he not approach intimacy with such debilitating ambivalence?

They drove for a while. Clayton wasn’t going to speak unless spoken to and kept his lips squished to keep something stupid from flying out. Now that it wasn’t his two dumb feet moving him, he got agitated and scanned for police cars. Rebuked himself for not staying out of sight longer. He pictured Freddie Rich at the head of the posse, holding a flashlight, the sun gleaming off the big buffalo belt buckle Clayton knew so well—the sight of it, the clatter of it on the concrete floor. The houses got closer together and the Packard eased through a short main street, the boy sinking in his seat but trying not to let the man notice. Then they were on a quiet road once more.

It doesn’t take a literary detective, scanning the passage above, to notice that he is partly saying of Orwell what Orwell actually says about Gissing. This half-buried resentment can be further noticed when Williams turns to paradox. I have already insisted that Orwell contains opposites and even contradictions, but where is the paradox in a ‘humane man who communicated an extreme of inhuman terror’? Where is the paradox in ‘a man committed to decency who actualized a distinctive squalor’? The choice of verbs is downright odd, if not a little shady. ‘Communicated’? ‘Actualised’? Assuming that Williams means to refer to Nineteen Eighty-Four in the first case, which he certainly does, would it not be more precise to say that Orwell ‘evoked’ or even ‘prefigured’ or perhaps simply ‘described’ an extreme of inhuman terror? Yet that choice of verb, because more accurate, would be less ‘paradoxical.’ Because what Williams means to imply, but is not brave enough to say, is that Orwell ‘invented’ the picture of totalitarian collectivism. As for ‘actualising’ a distinctive squalor, the author of that useful book Keywords has here chosen a deliberately inexact term. He may mean Nineteen Eighty-Four again—he is obsessed with the ‘gritty dust’ that infests Orwell’s opening passage—or he may mean the depictions of the mean and cramped (and malodorous) existence imposed on the denizens of Wigan Pier. But to ‘actualise’ such squalor is either to make it real—no contradiction to decency—or to make it actually occur, a suggestion which is obviously nonsensical.

In the back seat, Macanay was scanning the area through a pair of bulky Pentax binoculars. Next to him were pages of printed photos, most of them downloaded from social media accounts, of an olive-skinned young man in various posed shots. Here he was in a bath full of crushed ice with two barely dressed supermodels; here tugging on the lead of an illegally bought pet tiger cub; leaning idly on the fuselage of a private jet; or taking a draw from a hookah in the shape of a golden AK-47. There were also a half-dozen pictures of a crimson Maserati Ghibli, including blow-ups of the car’s number plate. Macanay’s silenced Beretta pistol sat on top of the pages to stop them slipping off the seat, and another identical gun was in the door compartment at Guhaad’s side, where he could reach it easily.

She didn't look up, her gaze focused entirely on the paper before her as she drew what looked like a wing. He picked up one of the papers from the floor, and on it was a butterfly, the colors a blending of vibrant yellows and oranges. He held out the paper. "What's this one called?" "Golden Shimmer," she said. "She loves the sunlight." He picked up a picture of a light-purple butterfly with a string of pearls around her neck. "And this one?" "Lavender Lace. She has the power to heal all sorts of wounds." He scanned the room, all the pictures on the floor. "Do they each have a name?" Finally she looked at him, her bright-blue eyes meeting his. "Of course." And he realized with a pang of sadness that these were Libby's friends for life. "They are beautiful." A glint of a smile. "Thank you." He picked up another butterfly, this one a dark violet shade, a silver streak bleeding across the edge of its wings. "What is she called?" "Silver Shadow." "Does she have a story?" Libby's smile faded. "She's lost and can't seem to find her way home.

Two days later, I started my job. My job involved typing friendly letters full of happy lies to dying children. I wasn't allowed to touch my computer keyboard. I had to press the keys with a pair of Q-tips held by tweezers -- one pair of tweezers in each hand. I’m sorry -- that was a metaphor. My job involved using one of those photo booths to take strips of four photographs of myself. The idea was to take one picture good enough to put on a driver’s license, and to be completely satisfied with it, knowing I had infinite retries and all the time in the world, and that I was getting paid for it. I’d take the photos and show them to the boss, and he would help me think of reasons the photos weren't good enough. I’d fill out detailed reports between retakes. We weren't permitted to recycle the outtakes, so I had to scan them, put them on eBay, arrange a sale, and then ship them out to the buyer via FedEx. FedEx came once every three days, at either ten minutes till noon or five minutes after six. I’m sorry -- that was a metaphor, too. My job involved blowing ping-pong balls across long, narrow tables using three-foot-long bendy straws. At the far end of the table was a little wastebasket. My job was to get the ping-pong ball into that wastebasket, using only the bendy straw and my lungs. Touching the straw to the ping-pong ball was grounds for a talking-to. If the ping-pong ball fell off the side of the table, or if it missed the wastebasket, I had to get on my computer and send a formal request to commit suicide to Buddha himself. I would then wait patiently for his reply, which was invariably typed while very stoned, and incredibly forgiving. Every Friday, an hour before Quitting Time, I'd put on a radiation suit. I'd lift the wastebaskets full of ping-pong balls, one at a time, and deposit them into drawstring garbage bags. I'd tie the bags up, stack them all on a pallet, take them down to the incinerator in the basement, and watch them all burn. Then I'd fill out, by hand, a one-page form re: how the flames made me feel. "Sad" was an acceptable response; "Very Sad" was not.

Third Mate to Second Mate, Third Mate to Second Mate, over. My friend, I know you’re out there and you mustn’t despair. Sleep during the day, At night your thoughts will come clear. We have looked at the stars together—chart them each night. If they are in the right places, you’re doing fine. Use your imagination only on the future, never on the present or the past. Do not try to picture people’s faces—you will despair if they don’t come clear. If you are visited by people from far away, don’t think of them as ghosts. Treat them as family, ask them questions, be a good host. You will need a purpose, The Captain’s purpose was to get us home safe. Your purpose will be to stay strong so that you can rescue the girl who rows in the dark. She is in trouble and needs help. You’re the only one out there who can help her. Scan the horizons at night, look for lights and flares. You must save her for me. I’m sorry that I let you down. It was my job to look out for you. I was supposed to save you, and I failed. You were the real hero. When the Americans came, you saved us all, and when you needed us, we weren’t there for you. Somehow, one day, I’ll make things right.

Anderson has spent enough time poring over ancient pictures that they seldom affect him. He can usually ignore the foolish confidence of the past—the waste, the arrogance, the absurd wealth—but this one irritates him: the fat flesh hanging off the farang, the astonishing abundance of calories that are so obviously secondary to the color and attractiveness of a market that has thirty varieties of fruit: mangosteens, pineapples, coconuts, certainly. . . but there are no oranges, now. None of these. . . these. . . dragon fruits, none of these pomelos, none of these yellow things. . . lemons. None of them. So many of these things are simply gone. But the people in the photo don't know it. These dead men and women have no idea that they stand in front of the treasure of the ages, that they inhabit the Eden of the Grahamite Bible where pure souls go to live at the right hand of God. Where all the flavors of the world reside under the careful attentions of Noah and Saint Francis, and where no one starves. Anderson scans the caption. The fat, self-contented fools have no idea of the genetic gold mine they stand beside. The book doesn't even bother to identify the ngaw. It's just another example of nature's fecundity, taken entirely for granted because they enjoyed so damn much of it.

The concept of “I,” as a single, unified whole making all decisions continuously, is an illusion created by our own subconscious minds.    Mentally we feel that our mind is a single entity, continuously and smoothly processing information, totally in charge of our decisions. But the picture emerging from brain scans is quite different from the perception we have of our own mind.    MIT professor Marvin Minsky, one of the founding fathers of artificial intelligence, told me that the mind is more like a “society of minds,” with different submodules, each trying to compete with the others.    When I interviewed Steven Pinker, a psychologist at Harvard University, I asked him how consciousness emerges out of this mess. He said that consciousness was like a storm raging in our brain. He elaborated on this when he wrote that “the intuitive feeling we have that there’s an executive ‘I’ that sits in a control room of our brain, scanning the screens of the senses and pushing the buttons of our muscles, is an illusion. Consciousness turns out to consist of a maelstrom of events distributed across the brain. These events compete for attention, and as one process outshouts the others, the brain rationalizes the outcome after the fact and concocts the impression that a single self was in charge all along.

We kept our fingers crossed and eagerly scanned the newspapers and magazines for news of an engagement between Diana and Charles. Then, late in the morning of February 24, I answered the telephone in my bedroom and heard the voice of a friend in London… “Mary, it’s Dena. Your girl made it!” I knew she meant that Diana’s engagement to Prince Charles had just been announced. I gave a big shout and literally jumped for joy, banging my head on the low dormer ceiling. I couldn’t have been prouder of Diana if I’d been her mother. I was so happy for her I could have burst! I knew how desperately she had wished for this outcome. The past fall, she had told me that she would “simply die” if the romance didn’t work out. How wonderful that her dream had come true. Almost immediately, a mischievous picture popped into my mind of the future and royal Diana, scheduled for an official day of handshaking, ribbon cutting, or tree planting and wishing she could have a friend call to cancel those tedious engagements. As Princess of Wales, she would not be able to cancel on short notice, if at all, as she had when she was baby-sitting for me. I wondered how the lively, spontaneous, and very young Diana would adjust to her official duties. I felt a bit sorry for her as I dimly realized how rigid and structured her new life might be.

Ravelly pointed to the illustration as he told his friend that he used to read the same story nightly to his son, Wahlister. “Imorih’s Journey—quite the moralistic quest.” Unan nodded in agreement. “I read it to Ian and Eena when they were children.” Then he held up the opened page with the picture of Imorih and the tiny, shouldered bug. He asked curiously, “Why do you say this is your favorite part, Master Ravelly?” The question caught Eena’s interest. Her ears tuned in to their conversation, but her eyes continued to scan the lively crowd below. The old Grott went on to explain. “That is the part where Imorih realizes the whispered voice she has been listening to, the advice she has been heeding, doesn’t belong to her conscience as she first supposed. It shocks her to learn that for the more part of her journey she has been following the promptings of a negligible, albeit well-intentioned, creature. That’s when two things happen in her life. First, she comprehends how cunning and manipulative the power of suggestion can be. Secondly, she learns to recognize the difference between her own voice—her own desires—and someone else’s.” Unan hummed a sound of accordance. “That’s right. Things change quite drastically after that discovery, don’t they?” “Yes, yes, they most certainly do. For the best, I recall.” “Because she becomes master of her own destiny after that.” “As we all should be.” Unan nodded, examining the illustration once again. “Yes, as we all should be.

The girl circled in my arm was clean and fresh, and her sleeping breath was humid against the base of my throat. Something stirred in me in response to her helplessness, and yet at the same time I resented her. I had seen too damn many of these brisk and shining girls, so lovely, so gracious, and so inflexibly ambitious. They had counted their stock in trade and burnished it and spread it right out there on the counter. It was all yours for the asking. All you had to do was give her all the rest of your life, and come through with the backyard pool, cookouts, Eames chairs, mortgage, picture windows, two cars, and all the rest of the setting they required for themselves. These gorgeous girls, with steel behind their eyes, were the highest paid whores in the history of the world. All they offered was their poised, half-educated selves, one hundred and twenty pounds of healthy, unblemished, arrogant meat, in return for the eventual occupational ulcer, the suburban coronary. Nor did they bother to sweeten the bargain with their virginity. Before you could, in your hypnoid state, slip the ring on her imperious finger, that old-fashioned prize was long gone, and even its departure celebrated many times, on house parties and ski weekends, in becalmed sailboats and on cruise ships. This acknowledged and excused promiscuity was, in fact, to her advantage. Having learned her way through the jungly province of sex, she was less likely to be bedazzled by body hunger to the extent that she might make a bad match with an unpromising young man. Her decks were efficiently cleared, guns rolled out, fuses alight, cannonballs stacked, all sails set. She stood on the bridge, braced and ready, scanning the horizon with eyes as cold as winter pebbles. One

MRI testing again shows what may be the underlying brain mechanism. The amygdalae are two small lobes in the brain associated with fear, arousal, and emotions. When they are active, it is thought to be a sign of vigilance, meaning that the brain is wary and wants more information. A study at Massachusetts General Hospital found that when subjects looked at photographs of faces—half were white, half were black—MRI scans found high amygdala activity. This was considered to be a normal reaction to unfamiliar faces. When the subjects looked at the photographs a second time the faces were more familiar; only the other-race faces continued to provoke high amygdala activity. This was true for both blacks and whites, suggesting that encounters with people of different races keep the brain at a higher level of watchfulness. Amygdalae notice race even when a person does not. William A. Cunningham of Ohio State University showed white subjects pictures of faces for only 30 milliseconds—not long enough for the subjects to be conscious of them—but black faces triggered greater amygdala activity than white faces. When he showed faces for a half a second—long enough for people to notice race—he found that black faces prompted greater activity in the pre-frontal areas, a part of the brain associated with detecting internal conflicts and controlling conscious behavior. This suggested the subjects were trying to suppress certain feelings about blacks. Steven Neuberg of Arizona State University attributes instinctive bias to evolution during our hunter-gatherer past. “By nature, people are group-living animals—a strategy that enhances individual survival and leads to what we might call a ‘tribal psychology’, ” he says. “It was adaptive for our ancestors to be attuned to those outside the group who posed threats such as to physical security, health or economic resources.

Television* means ‘to see from a distance’. The desire in man to do so has been there for ages. In the early years of the twentieth century many scientists experimented with the idea of using selenium photosensitive cells for converting light from pictures into electrical signals and transmitting them through wires. The first demonstration of actual television was given by J.L. Baird in UK and C.F. Jenkins in USA around 1927 by using the technique of mechanical scanning employing rotating discs.However, the real breakthrough occurred with the invention of the cathode ray tube and the success of V.K. Zworykin of the USA in perfecting the first camera tube (the iconoscope) based on the storage principle. By 1930 electromagnetic scanning of both camera and picture tubes and other ancillary circuits such as for beam deflection, video amplification, etc. were developed. Though television broadcast started in 1935, world political developments and the second world war slowed down the progress of television. With the end of the war, television rapidly grew into a popular medium for dispersion of news and mass entertainment. Television Systems At the outset, in the absence of any international standards, three monochrome (i.e. black and white) systems grew independently. These are the 525 line American, the 625 line European and the 819 line French systems. This naturally prevents direct exchange of programme between countries using different television standards.Later, efforts by the all world committee on radio and television (CCIR) for changing to a common 625 line system by all concerned proved ineffective and thus all the three systems have apparently come to stay. The inability to change over to a common system is mainly due to the high cost of replacing both the transmitting equipment and the millions of receivers already in use. However the UK, where initially a 415 line monochrome system was in use, has changed to the 625 line system with some modification in the channel bandwidth. In India, where television transmission started in 1959, the 625-B monochrome system has been adopted.

Davy, ever the daring one, bought a jumbo peppermint milk shake and got fifty cents back. He talked me out of getting plain vanilla. “You can get plain vanilla anytime!” he said. “Try…” He scanned the chalkboard that listed all the flavors. “Try peanut butter!” I did. I have never been sorry, because it was the best milk shake I ever tasted, like a melted and frozen Reese’s cup. And then it happened. We were walking across the parking lot, under the burning sun, with our shakes freezing our hands in the big white paper cups that had Spinnin’ Wheel in red across the sides. A sound began: music, first from a few car radios and then others as teenaged fingers turned the dial to that station. The volume dials were cranked up, and the music flooded out from the tinny speakers into the bright summer air. In a few seconds the same song was being played from every radio on the lot, and as it played, some of the car engines started and revved up and young laughter flew like sparks. I stopped. Just couldn’t walk anymore. That music was unlike anything I’d ever heard: guys’ voices, intertwining, breaking apart, merging again in fantastic, otherworldly harmony. The voices soared up and up like happy birds, and underneath the harmony was a driving drumbeat and a twanging, gritty guitar that made cold chills skitter up and down my sunburned back. “What’s that, Davy?” I said. “What’s that song?” …Round…round…get around…wha wha wha-oooooo… “What’s that song?” I asked him, close to panic that I might never know. “Haven’t you heard that yet? All the high-school guys are singin’ it.” …Gettin’ bugged drivin’ up and down the same ol’ strip…I gotta find a new place where the kids are hip… “What’s the name of it?” I demanded, standing at the center of ecstasy. “It’s on the radio all the time. It’s called—” Right then the high-school kids in the lot started singing along with the music, some of them rocking their cars back and forth, and I stood with a peanut butter milk shake in my hand and the sun on my face and the clean chlorine smell of the swimming pool coming to me from across the street. “—by the Beach Boys,” Davy Ray finished. “What?” “The Beach Boys. That’s who’s singin’ it.” “Man!” I said. “That sounds…that sounds…” What would describe it? What word in the English language would speak of youth and hope and freedom and desire, of sweet wanderlust and burning blood? What word describes the brotherhood of buddies, and the feeling that as long as the music plays, you are part of that tough, rambling breed who will inherit the earth? “Cool,” Davy Ray supplied. It would have to do. …Yeah the bad guys know us and they leave us alone…I get arounnnnddddd… I was amazed. I was transported. Those soaring voices lifted me off the hot pavement, and I flew with them to a land unknown. I had never been to the beach before. I’d never seen the ocean, except for pictures in magazines and on TV and movies. The Beach Boys. Those harmonies thrilled my soul, and for a moment I wore a letter jacket and owned a red hotrod and had beautiful blondes begging for my attention and I got around.

The 50-inch TCL Roku TV balances picture quality and value for money. And this is also what happens when America’s top TV brand and the world’s most popular streaming services content instantly and from one single place. You have everything on the Roku from live TV to game console or if you wish choose from over 1500 streaming channels. This is also the widest selection any smart TV has ever had. Find that perfect movie or TV show easily across top streaming channels by title, actor or director with the acclaimed Roku ‘Search’ feature. On the Roku, you will find more than 200,000 streaming movies and shows that you can choose from. The Remote is simple and puts control into the users’ hands and lets you instantly choose your preferred content from anywhere. Use the Roku Mobile app on your smartphone or tablet to control your Roku TV. Cast your personal media, videos and photos and even music to the big screen. With a 120 Hz refresh rate, the TV displays images at 1080p. It has a built-in wireless and not one, but three HDMI ports that provide a high definition multimedia interface. Wired calls the TCL Roku TV ‘The First Smart TV worth using’. The TCL TV has a Roku box built into it. It is a smart TV that includes the Roku operating system, which is also the favorite OS for most users. The OS is considered as one of the best compared to all the other products and definitely better than any other smart TVs. Recently, the Roku TV was displayed at the prestigious CES 2018 with a brand new OS. We all know a lot about Roku and there are lots of Roku fans across the United States. The recently released series of Roku OS 8 comes with some new and improved features. All Roku TVs have a ‘Tuner’ input that enables you to plug into an antenna and look for channels. In the new Roku TV, the ‘Tuner’ input is available on the Home screen itself; which makes it very easy to navigate to it without fumbling Once you select the ‘Tuner’ input it takes you to the last tuned channel You will also get a preview of what is playing right now The Roku OS 8 also comes with a Smart Guide where you will get a 14-day preview of what is available on all the channels that the Roku TV has scanned for Scroll through the Smart Guide to find out your next programming on the list The experience is fluid with no judder or lag; users will be able to scan through the Smart Guide very easily All you have to do is use the HD antenna and the Roku TV will pop up all the entertainment information In addition to the Smart Guide, there is also a new feature called ‘More Ways to Watch’ Anytime Roku identifies a content that is on the Smart Guide, which is also available on other Roku channels it is marked with a ‘*’. This indicates that there are more ways to watch a single programming content You also don’t have to wait to watch your favorite programming Wherever you see the ‘*’at any time on the Smart Guide, hit the ‘Ok’ button on your remote and watch it on another Roku channel instantly The pricing for the channel or programming is also displayed If you have a Roku set top box that is connected to a different TV (other than the Roku), there is a new feature in the ‘Search’ where Roku will tell you the channel on which a particular programming is available with the precise timing. The Roku OS 8 has already been pushed out to all the players and TVs. The same OS 8 version is available for Roku Set top boxes as well. If any problem in Roku setup, please call us @+1-877-302-5260

We are not our stuff.  We are more than our possessions. Our memories are within us, not our things. Our stuff weighs on us mentally and emotionally. Old photographs can be scanned. You can take pictures of items you want to remember. Items that are sentimental for us can be useful to others.

In the absence of effort the OCD pathology drives the brain’s circuitry, and compulsive behaviors result. But mental effort, I believe, generates a directed mental force that produces real physical effects: the brain changes that follow cognitive-behavioral therapy for OCD. The heroic mental effort required underlines the power of active mental processes like attention and will to redirect thoughts and actions in a way that is detectable on brain scans. Let me be clear about where mental effort enters the picture. The OCD patient is faced with two competing systems of brain circuitry. One underlies the passively experienced, pathological intrusions into consciousness. The other encodes information like the fact that the intrusions originate in faulty basal ganglia circuits. At first the pathological circuitry dominates, so the OCD patient succumbs to the insistent obsessions and carries out the compulsions. With practice, however, the conscious choice to exert effort to resist the pathological messages, and attend instead to the healthy ones, activates functional circuitry. Over the course of several weeks, that regular activation produces systematic changes in the very neural systems that generate those pathological messages—namely, a quieting of the OCD circuit. Again quoting James, “Volitional effort is effort of attention…. Effort of attention is thus the essential phenomenon of will.

Biron paused, scanned the picture before him then covered his lower face with his hand, pretending to rub his jaw. Eric slanted a sardonic glance up at his captain. “Yes. I asked for my clothing and was given this…” he picked at the loose-fitting garment draping his large frame, “…dress. Mistress Layna informed me that it would not ‘chafe at my wounds like trousers would’.” He shrugged. “As ridiculous as I look, she is right.” Biron’s face assumed a serious mien. “I particularly like the beading and embroidery work around the neckline, sir. A perfect complement to your eyes and hair. The burning question is can we survive the sight of your glowing white calves and bony ankles?” Laughing

Put Lenin in a tuxedo and use him as a seat filler at the Academy Awards. At the Oscar ceremonies they have this big holding pen full of attractive people in gowns and tuxes and whenever the Academy gives away the awards for achievement in sound and everyone flees into the lobby, seat fillers are zoomed in so that the cameras scanning the audience won’t register any vacant seats. When Daniel Day-Lewis has to go to the bathroom, the cameras could zoom in and see a picture of Sigourney Weaver sitting next to … Leninl” DUSTY:

In most cases, Joanne says, we would have to stop talking about “mental health”—which conjures pictures of brain scans and defective synapses—and start talking about “emotional health.” “Why do we call it mental health?” she asked me. “Because we want to scientize it. We want to make it sound scientific. But it’s our emotions.

8. Caption every picture If you do include pictures, always write captions. Research shows that when people assess a page, picture captions are one of the first things they’ll scan when deciding if it’s worth their attention.

Dunne’s dreams seemed to him evidence for what Einstein and other physicists and mathematicians were just beginning to assert: that since the present moment depends entirely on where you stand in relation to events—what might be in the past for one observer may still be in the future for another observer, and vice versa—then the future must in some sense already exist. Einstein’s theory of relativity suggested that time was a dimension like space. To help visualize this, his teacher, Hermann Minkowski, pictured “spacetime” as a four-dimensional block. For the purposes of this book, let’s make it a glass block so we can see what is happening inside it. One’s life, and the “life” of any single object or atom in the universe, is really a line—a “world line”—snaking spaghetti-like through that glass block. The solid three-dimensional “you” that you experience at any moment is really just a slice or cross section of a four-dimensional clump of spaghetti-like atoms that started some decades ago as a zygote, gradually expanded in size by incorporating many more spaghetti-strand atoms, and then, after several decades of coherence (as a literal “flying spaghetti monster”) will dissipate into a multitude of little spaghetti atoms going their separate ways after your death. (They will recoalesce in different combinations with other spaghetti-strand atoms to make other objects and other spaghetti beings, again and again and again, until the end of the universe.) What we perceive at any given moment as the present state of affairs is just a narrow slice or cross-section of that block as our consciousness traverses our world-line from beginning to end. (If it helps envision this, the comic artist, occult magician, and novelist Alan Moore has recently revised the “block” to a football—one tip being the big bang, the other the “big crunch” proposed in some cosmological models.32 I will stick with the term “glass block” since I am not a football fan and “glass football” sounds odd.) Precognitive dreams, Dunne argued, show that at night, as well as other times when the brain is in a relaxed state, our consciousness can wriggle free of the present moment and scan ahead (as well as behind) on our personal world-line, like a flashlight at night illuminating a spot on the path ahead. This ability to be both rooted mentally in our body, with its rich sensory “now,” and the possibility of coming unstuck in time (as Vonnegut put it) suggested to Dunne that human consciousness was dual. We not only possess an “individual mind” that adheres to the brain at any given time point, but we also are part of a larger, “Universal Mind,” that transcends the now and that spaghetti-clump body. The Universal Mind, he argued, is ultimately shared—a consciousness-in-common—that is equivalent to what has always been called “God.

scanning the selection of movies, but suddenly they all seem fake and horrible and awful—full of false promises and bullshit happy endings.

For me it has become a series of “engagements” that I have done until they became my normal day. From waking in the morning to look for the spiritual realm to speaking in tongues before speaking English, to scanning the spiritual atmosphere of the places I go. This is a picture of just being or becoming who we are. Awareness of our spirit all the time. Awareness of the presence of the Lord all the time. The more this is done, the more our spirit leads.

scan the pages quickly, feigning interest until I come upon a line drawing of a child next to a picture of a massive rifle, and then I really am interested. I read the associated paragraph: After the daughter was recovered, the M.E. examined the girl and found no evidence of bruising on her limbs or torso consistent with having fired a Winchester Magnum. Given the size of the weapon relative to the girl’s height and weight as well as the lack of physical evidence, the M.E. ruled that the daughter did not fire the rifle. My heart pounds. I place the folder carefully on the table and wipe my hands on my jeans and stick them under my legs to stop them from shaking. I don’t understand. I shot my mother. I killed her—I know I did. I’ve seen myself standing over her body with the rifle so many, many times.

It was taken some time ago. At first it seems to be a smeared print: blurred lines and grey flecks blended with the paper; then, as you scan it, you see in the left-hand corner a thing that is like a branch: part of a tree (balsam or spruce) emerging and, to the right, halfway up what ought to be a gentle slope, a small frame house. In the background there is a lake, and beyond that, some low hills. (The photograph was taken the day after I drowned. I am in the lake, in the center of the picture, just under the surface. It is difficult to say where precisely, or to say how large or small I am: the effect of water on light is a distortion but if you look long enough, eventually you will be able to see me.)

the lawn from a grassy field to a twilit garden. As if on cue, Sebastian arrived leading a parade into the clearing, and called everyone to order. “Honored guests,” he shouted, holding his hands out in greeting. “I’m pleased to announce we have record attendance this year. This is in no small part due to the efforts of our friends-of-the-farm coordinator, Benjamin Thorndike, and his new assistant, Jason Adams.” Polite applause accompanied an occasional cheer. One woman at the back called out, “Which ones are they, Sebastian?” The managing director scanned the crowd and pointed. “Over there. Benjamin’s the one on the porch steps with the camera, taking your pictures. And you can’t miss Jason. He’s the tallest here, but just in case, raise your hand, Jason.” Helena watched, bemused, as Jason raised his hand. He seemed embarrassed, but she thought he was enjoying the celebrity. Once Sebastian completed his welcome, the crowd headed for the food and drink, then milled around sipping apple wine and taking in the scene. Two farm members mounted the steps of the great house and began to play music on a penny whistle and violin, a lilting tune from a time when farmers would gather to celebrate the harvest. A few people came over to meet

Aren’t our dresses exquisite?” Performing a few happy waltz steps, Corinna turned in a circle. “Um, yes. Pull your sleeves up, Juliana, will you?” She tugged at them, but the dress was designed to be off the shoulder. “They won’t go.” He eyed their dresses’ high waistlines and scooped necklines, designed to accentuate the bust. “You’re all going to cover”—at an apparent loss for words, he patted his own chest—“with one of those scarf things, right?” “A fichu?” Madame sniffed. “I think not. These are evening gowns, my lord.” “They don’t look like the pictures my sisters showed me.” “The pictures were but a starting point, my lord. By the time the fashion plates make it here from France, they’re already beginning to pass out of style.” “We shall not be caught in last month’s fashions,” Juliana added. “These gowns are the thing.” “Not in this house, they aren’t!” “Griffin. Good news. The foundry will have the new part cast by the end of the day.” Tris walked in, scanned the room with a low whistle, and settled on Alexandra. “By George, you ladies will put every other girl to shame.” “My sisters won’t be wearing these dresses,” Griffin said. “Of course they will.” Tris tore his gaze from Alexandra and turned to his friend. “While I take apart the pump, you’ll want to head out to the vineyard and see that work on the new pipeline is resumed.” “Very well.” Griffin turned to leave, then swiveled back. “I’m not paying for those dresses,” he warned. “Not until they’re made decent.” Madame Rodale gave a little French-sounding “hmmph.” Tris laughed. “Listen to yourself, old man. You’ve been on campaign far too long. Don’t you want men to find your sisters appealing? Irresistible? Marriageable?” “Not if they’re men like…” “Like us?” Tris suggested helpfully. Griffin’s “hmmph” put the mantua-maker’s to shame. “I need to get to the vineyard,” he muttered and left. “Madame

It’s ironic that our nearly three trillion dollar medical system actually has some of the most sophisticated diagnostic equipment available in the world, which detects and measures energies and frequencies in the body. This diagnostic equipment includes devices you probably heard of like MRIs (Magnetic Resonance Imaging), PET scans (Positron Emission Tomography), CAT scans (Computed Axial Tomography), EEGs (Electro encephalograms), EKGs (Electrocardiography), ultrasound devices and more. Our medical system diagnoses the body energetically with modern physics (Quantum Field Theory), and then treats with drugs and surgery (Newtonian Science). What is wrong with this picture? The Book Of Science is Constantly Being Rewritten Nothing is so fatal to the progress of the human mind as to suppose our views of science are ultimate; that there are no new mysteries in nature; that our triumphs are complete; and that there are no new worlds to conquer. —Humphry Davy (from a public lecture given in 1810)

always wanted, but it came with a price. He scanned the oak-paneled room. He had made the office his own. There was an old bookcase he had brought from home filled with law books. Paintings and sketches of the New York Harbor, the Kill Van Kull, and various Staten Island scenes and pictures of his family encircled the walls and usually kept him focused. He

Bud handed them to Pike, and tapped the top picture. “This man was one of the original home invaders. You shot him in Malibu. He’s the only one of the five you shot who was also one of the home invaders.” “What’s his name?” “I don’t know. But this man—” Bud shuffled the pictures to point out a man with prominent cheekbones and a scarred lip. “—he’s the freak who beat the housekeeper. You recognize either of these other guys from Malibu or Eagle Rock?” “Who are they?” “Don’t know. We haven’t been able to identify any of the five people you put in the morgue. The Live Scan kicked back zero. No IDs were found on the bodies, and they weren’t in the system. You can keep these pictures, you want.” Pike stared at the pictures, thinking it didn’t make sense that none of the five had been identified. The type of man you could hire to do murder almost always had a criminal record. The Live Scan system digitized fingerprints, then instantly compared them with computerized records stored by the California Department of Justice and the NCIC files, and those files were exhaustive. If a person had ever been arrested anywhere in the country or served in the military, their fingerprints were in the file. Pike said, “That doesn’t sound right.” “No, it does not, but all five of these guys were clean.” “No IDs or wallets?” “Not one damn thing of a personal nature. You arrested a lot of people, Joe. You remember many shitbirds smart enough to clean up before they did crime?” Pike shook his head. “Me neither. So here we are.” Bud slammed his trunk, then stared at the girl.

Sonar users can sense the bottom and sides of the ocean—islands, seamounts, and coasts—as well as each other, getting detailed pictures of the shapes and inner structures (as in ultrasound scans of human pregnancies—ultrasound is sonar) of potential prey, social partners, and competitors. Sonar can also alert them to the presence of predators, but primarily the sonar of the toothed whales is about finding food.

Friends of yours? Nice of them to make it to our claiming ceremony.” The deep voice behind her made Liv whirl around. He was directly behind her, looming over her and nodding at Sophie and Kat as though they were at a wedding or something. Well it is a wedding, isn’t it? Or the next best thing to it, chimed in the little voice. Liv was beginning to wish she had an ice pick so she could dig it out once and for all. Then she realized that was a crazy thought—and yet, she was in a crazy situation. How else was she supposed to react? “I’m her attorney, you asshole,” Kat lied with abandon before Liv could say anything. “And there’s not going to be any ceremony,” Sophia added, speaking up even though she was usually a total wallflower around strange men. She turned to Kat. “Is there, Kat?” “I’m afraid there is.” The big Kindred warrior had a neutral expression on his face but there was a warning rumble in his deep voice. “She’s my bride. I’m claiming her today.” “Excuse me? Claiming her? Like she was a lost piece of luggage at the airport or something?” Kat demanded. “She’s not lost anymore,” the big warrior said with certainty. “Now that I’ve found her she’s mine.” “Liv doesn’t belong to you or anybody else,” Sophia hissed, glaring up at him and keeping her arms protectively around Liv. “She’s my sister—you can’t step in and take her away, just like that!” “Actually, I’m afraid he can.” The new voice caused all of three of them to swivel their heads. Another Kindred warrior with blond, spiky hair and ice blue eyes was speaking. “You made a legally binding agreement when you enrolled in the draft,” he told Liv. “Not to mention just now when the officers picked you up and you signed the contract of claiming.” “I what?” Liv demanded. “What are you talking about? I didn’t sign anything. Did I?” The blond Kindred held out his hand and one of the Kindred officers put a thick sheaf of papers in it. “Does this look familiar?” he asked, holding it out to her. Liv felt her heart sink. “But I thought I was just signing to verify my uh, identity. See, they showed me this picture—” “Let me see that.” Kat snatched the papers away and began scanning through them rapidly. Liv and Sophia watched her hopefully but Liv could feel the hope in her chest turning to despair as Kat’s pretty face grew more and more blank. At last she looked up. “Well?” Liv felt like someone had deposited a fist sized ball of ice in the pit of her stomach. “Liv, honey—” Kat began and Sophia began to sob. “I can’t believe this,” she gasped, tears pouring down her face. “Can’t believe that they can just drag you out of your house without even giving you time to change clothes and force you to go with some strange man. This is horrible!” Liv felt numb. “No, Sophie, this is reality.

The following day I returned to the same spot, this time bringing with me the shoebox of my mother's photographs. I sat on the ground, opened the box, and began going through the pictures one by one, as if they were pieces of mail that I was quickly scanning and would read later on. But there were too many pictures, and after a few I, like my father, could no longer bear their sight. A slight lessening in the pressure of my fingertips and the ones I was holding would have blown away into that wild sea, scattering down to where my mother's ashes already resided. But I could not bear that either, and so I put them back in the box and began to break the hardened ground. I only had a stick and a sharpedged rock to work with and the hole was not impressive, but it was deep enough to conceal the box. I covered it with dirt and stones.

The pictures slipped past again and I kept looking at them. Some of the scans were sepia pictures, going back a hundred years; some were black-and-white; some were oversaturated, from the sixties and seventies. Many were recent, direct digital. Finally,

You didn’t reply to my text message,” I say as I scan his room absentmindedly. “Thought I needed to remind you that a debt is still owed.” “I might’ve not replied but I certainly made the picture my screen saver.

The words from your diagnosis rang in my ears. The picture on the scan pulled at my heart. The words were muffled by the sound of my heart. The picture was silenced by the sound of my heart. Not from the sound of it racing. Not from the sound of it beating. From the sound of my heartstrings breaking.

My gaze roamed over the picture of the little kids and their parents who had been killed and something twisted in my gut. Of course I didn't support this. But I knew for a fact that Dante and Ryder wouldn't either. Though I guessed as the leaders of their people, they did own some responsibility for it. The thought of that made me uncomfortable and I sighed as I scanned the details of the article. It looked like their car had been hit by a rogue fireball and had collided with an oncoming truck. I guessed they died instantly, or someone would have been able to heal them.

We’re about to send a picture out over the network.” “But how?” “Watch and see,” Penny advised. In the center of the room stood two machines with cylinders, one for transmitting pictures to distant stations, the other for receiving them. On the sending cylinder was wrapped a glossy 8 by 10 photograph of a fire. As Penny spoke, an attendant pressed a starter switch on the sending machine. There was a high pitched rasp as the clutch threw in, and the cylinder bearing the picture began to turn at a steady measured pace. “It’s a complicated process,” Penny said glibly. “A photo electric cell scans the picture and transmits it to all the points on the network. Salt here could tell you more about it.

When the first thing I do in the morning is roll over, grab my phone, and begin scanning work emails, I wake to the monsters of performance. The story of reality is about what I can get accomplished today and whether I can justify my existence. When I begin the morning in social media, I wake to the monsters of comparison and envy. The story of reality is about the pictures of other people’s lives and whether I can measure up. When I begin the morning in the news headlines, the monsters of fear and anger nearly jump through the screen. The story of reality is about how the world is falling apart and how mad I should be at the others who just don’t get it. Or when I lie in bed recounting the day’s to-do list (or when I jump up and immediately start the rush to get everyone out the door on time), I wake to the monster of busyness. The story of reality is how there is always too much to do and never enough time to do it.

I can picture purchasing a product, such as a vehicle, a bicycle, or even grocery items, and seeing the emissions to produce the item and transport it to its location on its product tag, or by scanning its bar code. Items with top quartile emissions or high ESG performance for the category may have a different color-coded tag. The price tag will become a product tag and information about the item and the producer would be available in its online description,

Images began scrolling. Crime scene photos. Scanned newspaper clippings. Pictures of flipped cars and fire-gutted buildings. Obituaries. Autopsy reports. Each item related to an accident or crime. I paused the slideshow to scan several articles. Detected the theme. Every crime was unsolved. Every accident was freakish and unexplained. Many incidents had numerous victims. Some were grisly. All were terrible. One after another the entries flashed on-screen. A few settings were identifiable. Seattle. New York City. Las Vegas. The majority were unrecognizable. Shelton turned to me. “So what, he’s into police reports? Disaster stories?” “They’re his work.” My stomach churned with revulsion. “Everything on here. This must be the Gamemaster’s private archive. A diary of his twisted games.” “Trophies.” Hi’s voice was hushed. “His collection. Every serial killer has one.” Ben’s fist slammed the coffee table. “I’ll kill this sick freak!” Suddenly the screen went blank. There were sounds like a videogame, then a new program opened. The Gamemaster’s face appeared. “Hello, Tory.” He smiled. “Welcome to my humble home.

The first step is asking what kind of church are we? VALUE DISCOVERY AND DEVELOPMENT It asks why we do what we do? The answer will reveal the church's core values. They are what drive the church, MISSIONS DEVELOPMENT The church's mission statement answers the functional question what are we supposed to be doing? This will enable each church to personalize the great commission and implement it in their unique ministry context. ENVIRONMENTAL SCAN This answers the question what is going on out there? This helps churches anticipate trends and coming changes in the general environment, that affect society, technology, economy, politics. This positions the church to be creative and proactive in thinking, so that we are not over whelmed or left behind in our ministry. VISION DEVELOPMENT While the Mission provides a statement of where the church is going, while the vision paints a picture of what that will look like. Vision development is seeing the church's future for it to happen. STRATEGY DEVELOPMENT The strategy answers the question: How will we get to where we want to be? Once we know (Missions) and see (Vision) where we are going, we must decide how we will get there. A well thought through strategy consists of a target group we want to reach.

When these ancient parts of your brain are active or rehearsing the next disaster using the DMN, they effortlessly hijack your attention. You try to meditate and repetitive negative thinking takes over. In the cage match between Caveman Brain and Bliss Brain, Caveman Brain always wins. Survival is a more important need than happiness or self-actualization. You can’t self-actualize if you’re dead. In 2015 the US National Institutes of Health estimated that less than 10% of the US population meditates. One of the primary reasons for this is that meditation is hard. Most people who start a meditation program drop out. GETTING THE BEST OF ALL WORLDS When writing my first best-selling book, The Genie in Your Genes, I experimented with many schools of stress reduction and meditation. Heart coherence. Mindfulness. EFT tapping. Neurofeedback. Hypnosis. One day I had a Big Idea: What happens when you combine them all? I began playing with a routine that did just that. Here’s what I came up with: First, you tap on acupressure points to relieve stress. Second, you close your eyes and relax your tongue on the floor of your mouth. This sends a signal to your vagus nerve, which wanders all over your body, connecting all the major organ systems. It’s the key signaling component of the parasympathetic nervous system, which governs relaxation. 4.8. The vagus nerve connects with all the major organ systems of your body. Third, you imagine the volume of space inside your body, particularly between your eyes. This automatically generates big alpha in your brain, moving you toward the Awakened Mind. Fourth, you slow your breathing down to 6 seconds per inbreath and 6 seconds per outbreath. This puts you into heart coherence. Fifth, you imagine your breath coming in and going out from your heart area, and you picture a sphere of energy in your heart. Sixth, you send a beam of heart energy to a person or place that makes you feel wonderful. This puts you into deep coherence. After enjoying the connection for a while, you send compassion to everyone and everything in the universe. Feeling universal compassion produces the major brain changes seen in fMRI scans of longtime meditators. As we’ll see in Chapters 6 and 8, compassion moves the needle like nothing else. At this point, most people drop into Bliss Brain automatically. They’re in a combination of alpha, heart coherence, and parasympathetic dominance. They haven’t been asked to still their minds, sit cross-legged, follow a guru, or believe in a deity. They’ve just followed a sequence of simple physical steps. After a few minutes of universal compassion, you again focus your beam on a single person or place. You then gently disengage and draw the energy beam back into your own heart. Seventh, you direct your beam of compassion to a part of your body that is suffering or in pain. You end the meditation by returning your attention to the here and now.

The days after the call were somber and tense. I could not function on anything but autopilot. Daily activities seemed cumbersome and joyless. The diagnostic center hadn’t called with an appointment yet and I grew restless. A family friend who was a doctor read the ultrasound scans and painted me a pretty ugly picture. She recommended not resuscitating my daughter if given the opportunity after birth. I felt like she had stabbed me in the chest, twisted the knife around, and sliced open my heart. I buckled over and stifled a scream. But I pushed myself

The traumatised child learns that only it can protect itself. It must assume control, stay on high alert, scan the room, survive. These factory settings are not like the brightness of a picture or the volume of a television. These children are wired for danger and a few years in a loving home will not reset them. They need parenting in a different way, so that they can learn they are good and lovable, so that the shame of their early years is eased, so that they can experience calm and start to learn from new experiences.

Reluctantly, she entered the delicatessen with a soda fountain and cases of cold meat. There were twenty different kinds of cheeses, barrels of pickles, and sausages hanging from the ceiling. A sandwich board stood behind the counter, listing specialty sandwiches. Rosie scanned the selection: turkey club on a French roll, Canadian ham and Gruyère cheese, roast beef with horseradish and Bermuda onions. She pictured Ben standing in their kitchen after a long day at the studio. He would assemble almost every item in the fridge: ham, Swiss cheese, mustard, pickles, mayonnaise, sprouts, lettuce, and tomatoes. He would carefully spread the mustard on a whole-wheat roll and build a sandwich as if he was constructing a pyramid.

Take Human Longevity Inc. (HLI), one of the companies Peter cofounded. HLI offers a service called “Health Nucleus,” an annual, three-hour health scan consisting of whole genome sequencing, whole body MRI, heart and lung CT, electrocardiogram, echocardiogram, and a slew of clinical blood tests—essentially the most complete picture of health currently available.

Do you feel well in yourself currently?’. He answered ‘No’. ‘Are you using any substances regularly. If so, what?’. ‘Yes’ was written, though it looked shaky. She could imagine him sitting there in front of Mary, reaching that question, and then looking up, afraid to admit it. She’d seen it before. Too many times. The word ‘Heroin’ was written quickly, as if admitting it was hard and he needed to get it over with. ‘Do you want to receive support with the aim to become a non-user?’  The word ‘Yes’ was written there. Jamie looked over the questions again. Non-permanent residence. Non-user. Those were terms that people who knew how to deal with the homeless used so that they didn’t embarrass them. It was giving the answers without saying I’ve been homeless for this long, or yes, I want help getting clean. Mary knew what she was doing.  At the bottom of the page, there was one final question. ‘Would you like to have a free health check-up by a qualified medical practitioner at this shelter?’  He had written ‘Yes’, and then signed the declaration underneath that said he understood that if he was carrying drugs or under the influence when he arrived that he would be turned away, and that if he appeared to be a danger to himself or others the proper authorities would be called and this information could be provided to them with his permission.  She wondered if he’d read that before he signed. No one ever read the terms and conditions. Jamie sat back and tried to picture Oliver sitting there, and the circumstances that led him to the shelter. She opened Grace’s file quickly and scanned down the same form to her answers for diseases and sexual partners. She’s written the same answers as Oliver.

Brain experts have recently found a way to capture 3-D images of a vision, like a hologram. The procedure, called PET (positron-emission tomography), is performed by injecting glucose into the bloodstream whose carbon molecules have been tagged with radioisotopes. Glucose is the only food in the brain that it uses much more quickly than ordinary tissues. Consequently, when the injected glucose reaches the brain, its carbon marker molecules can be picked out as the brain uses them, and thus pictured on a monitor in three dimensions, much the same way a CAT scan is made. Watching these marker molecules change as the brain thinks, scientists saw that each distinct experience in the mind universe — such as a sense of discomfort or a clear memory — triggers a new chemical pattern in the brain, not just at one location, but at many locations. For every thought, the image looks different, and if one could extend the portrait to be full-length, there's no doubt that the entire body changes at the same time, thanks to the cascades of neurotransmitters and related messenger molecules.

am too alone in the world, and not alone enough to make every minute holy. I am too tiny in this world, and not tiny enough just to lie before you like a thing, shrewd and secretive. I want my own will, and I want simply to be with my will, as it goes toward action, and in the silent, sometimes hardly moving times when something is coming near, I want to be with those who know secret things or else alone. I want to be a mirror for your whole body, and I never want to be blind, or to be too old to hold up your heavy and swaying picture. I want to unfold. I don’t want to stay folded anywhere, because where I am folded, there I am a lie. (twenty-three) In Patterson’s, as I wait for Will, I scan Jane Eyre feeling uneasy for some reason, as if I’m peering into Cameron’s diary, or trespassing on sacred ground.

the most sophisticated diagnostic equipment available in the world, which detects and measures energies and frequencies in the body. This diagnostic equipment includes devices you probably heard of like MRIs (Magnetic Resonance Imaging), PET scans (Positron Emission Tomography), CAT scans (Computed Axial Tomography), EEGs (Electro encephalograms), EKGs (Electrocardiography), ultrasound devices and more. Our medical system diagnoses the body energetically with modern physics (Quantum Field Theory), and then treats with drugs and surgery (Newtonian Science). What is wrong with this picture?

During an MRI scan, the magnetic force created within the machine affects fields of hydrogen, flipping the spin of hydrogen nuclei in your body. This creates distinctive patterns that form clearer pictures of your internal organs and tissues.

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