Synchronisation Quotes

The conversations that follow are gratifying for Connell, often taking unexpected turns and prompting him to express ideas he had never consciously formulated before. They talk about the novels he's reading, the research she studies, the precise historical moment that they are currently living in, the difficulty of observing such a moment in process. At times he has the sensation that he and Marianne are like figure-skaters, improvising their discussions so adeptly and in such perfect synchronisation that it suprises them both. She tosses herself gracefully into the air, and each time, without knowing how he's going to do it, he catches her.

Never hesitate to let the one you love know how you feel. Align your minds, synchronise your hearts and above be fearless when dancing with their souls.

At times he has the sensation that he and Marianne are like figure skaters, improvising their discussions so adeptly and in such perfect synchronisation that it surprises them both. She tosses herself gracefully into the air, and each time, without knowing how he's going to do it, he catches her.

Vimes' glare ran from face to face, causing most of the squad to do an immediate impression of the Floorboard and Ceiling Inspectors Synchronised Observation Team.

Our romantic lives are fated to be sad and incomplete, because we are creatures driven by two essential desires which point powerfully in entirely opposing directions. Yet what is worse is our utopian refusal to countenance the divergence, our naive hope that a cost-free synchronisation might somehow be found: that the libertine might live for adventure while avoiding loneliness and chaos. Or that the married Romantic might unite sex with tenderness, and passion with routine.” “Infatuations aren’t delusions. That way a person has of holding their head may truly indicate someone confident, wry and sensitive; they really may have the humour and intelligence implied by their eyes and the tenderness suggested by their mouth. The error of the infatuation is more subtle: a failure to keep in mind the central truth of human nature that everyone – not merely our current partners, in whose multiple failings we are such experts – but everyone will have something substantially and maddeningly wrong with them when we spend more time around them, something so wrong as to make a mockery of those initially rapturous feelings. The only people who can still strike us as normal are those we don’t yet know very well. The bet cure for love is to get to know them better.

the clock is not merely a means of keeping track of the hours, but of synchronising the actions of men

So perhaps happiness is synchronising one’s personal delusions of meaning with the prevailing collective delusions.

Synchronise your behaviour with your intent and never loose sight of your smile.

When he turns inland he sees two moving white columns in the sky. At first glance he thinks they are emissions of smoke. The two encroaching formations ripple into funnels and then spread out beneath the labyrinthine coral of clouds into fans. His vision blurs for a moment. Then he realises he is witnessing two perfectly synchronised flocks of birds. The abstract shapes they form are flawless. He stands with his hands in his pockets as the birds taper into a long undulating line, which gently vanishes behind the surface of things. The same thing has happened to his father. He has vanished behind the surface of things.

there is a time for everything. When time and action are synchronised - right action at the right time by the right person - achievement and success are normally the outcome.

At times he has the sensation that he and Marianne are like figure-skaters, improvising their discussions so adeptly and in such perfect synchronisation that it surprises them both.

Life sometimes get so bogged down in the details, you forget you are living it. We have synchronised our watches, studied our calendars, existed in minutes, and completely forgotten to step back and see what we've accomplished.

Slowly, but very deliberately, the brooding edifice of seduction, creaking and incongruous, came into being, a vast Heath Robinson mechanism, dually controlled by them and lumbering gloomily down vistas of triteness. With a sort of heavy-fisted dexterity the mutually adapted emotions of each of them became synchronised, until the unavoidable anti-climax was at hand. Later they dined at a restaurant quite near the flat.

None of this is to say that religion and science are wrong, except when they serve to obscure the hidden harmony that lies within an individual. The true meaning and purpose of life is only to be found within one’s heart — in the mystical experience of moving in perfect synchronisation with all that is

new cathedral. So perhaps happiness is synchronising one’s personal delusions of meaning with the prevailing collective delusions.

As far as we can tell, from a purely scientific viewpoint, human life has absolutely no meaning. Humans are the outcome of blind evolutionary processes that operate without goal or purpose. Our actions are not part of some divine cosmic plan, and if planet Earth were to blow up tomorrow morning, the universe would probably keep going about its business as usual. As far as we can tell at this point, human subjectivity would not be missed. Hence any meaning that people ascribe to their lives is just a delusion. The other-worldly meanings medieval people found in their lives were no more deluded than the modern humanist, nationalist and capitalist meanings modern people find. The scientist who says her life is meaningful because she increases the store of human knowledge, the soldier who declares that his life is meaningful because he fights to defend his homeland, and the entrepreneur who finds meaning in building a new company are no less delusional than their medieval counterparts who found meaning in reading scriptures, going on a crusade or building a new cathedral. So perhaps happiness is synchronising one’s personal delusions of meaning with the prevailing collective delusions. As long as my personal narrative is in line with the narratives of the people around me, I can convince myself that my life is meaningful, and find happiness in that conviction. This is quite a depressing conclusion. Does happiness really depend on self-delusion?

When we say we are lacking in the time to eat well, what we often mean is that we lack synchronised time to eat. Our days and weeks are broken up with constant interruptions and meals are no longer taken communally and in unison, but are a cacophony of individual collations snatched here and there, with no company but the voices in our headphones. Many of us, to our own annoyance, are trapped in routines in which eating well seems all but impossible. Yet this is partly because we live in a world that places a higher premium on time than it does on food.

So perhaps happiness is synchronising one’s personal delusions of meaning with the prevailing collective delusions. As long as my personal narrative is in line with the narratives of the people around me, I can convince myself that my life is meaningful, and find happiness in that conviction.

The moment when your heart’s rhythm synchronises with the chants of the holy temple, you find God in your soul. It was noisy yet peaceful. They were all dancing in the packed hall, with eyes closed and hands swinging up in the air. It was as if the motto of life was nothing but to enjoy this very moment and taste the love of the almighty.

So perhaps happiness is synchronising one’s personal delusions of meaning with the prevailing collective delusions. As long as my personal narrative is in line with the narratives of the people around me, I can convince myself that my life is meaningful, and find happiness in that conviction. This is quite a depressing conclusion. Does happiness really depend on self-delusion?

He was back in the water, not braving but frowning, synchronised swimming, not swimming but sinking, toward the godsquid he knew was there, tentacular fleshscape and the moon-sized eye that he never saw but knew, as if the core of the fucking planet was not searing metal but mollusc, as if what we fall toward when we fall, what the apple was heading for when Newton's head got in the way, was kraken.

You will have thoughts about something in the morning like a song, a person, a requirement of something and by evening the same opportunities will be presented to you on a platter. You will be the right person at the right time due to energy synchronisation in your life. This will go to a level when you will feel that you have a direct connection with God. You will also have the feeling of holding a power when things just happen in business and personal life just by thinking about them. You are presented with opportunities by people which you never expected. These things will happen quite often. The only precaution is to keep your goal higher as sometimes you yourself don't believe that you deserve more than what you are getting. Remember that the universe has an abundance of energy. When it starts delivering the burst of energy, you will not be able to imagine what the universe can provide you.

There was a hubbub in Billy's head all night. He would hardly call so raging and discombobulated a torrent of images a dream. Call it a vomit, call it a gush. He was back in the water, not braving but frowning, synchronised swimming, not swimming but sinking, toward the godsquid he knew was there, a tentacular fleshscape and the moon-sized eye that he never saw but knew, as if the core of the fucking planet was not searing metal but mollusc, as if what we fall toward when we fall, what the apple was heading for when Newton's head got in the way, was kraken.

Our ability to measure and apportion time affords an almost endless source of comfort. “Synchronise watches at oh six hundred,” says the infantry captain, and each of his huddled lieutenants finds a respite from fear in the act of bringing two tiny pointers into jeweled alignment while tons of heavy artillery go fluttering overhead; the prosaic, civilian looking dial of the watch has restored, however briefly, an illusion of personal control. Good, it counsels, looking tidily up from the hairs and veins of each terribly vulnerable wrist; fine: so far, everything’s happening right on time… “Oh, let me see now,” says the ancient man, tilting his withered head to wince and blink at the sun in bewildered reminiscence, “my first wife passed away the spring of -” and for a moment he is touched with terror. The spring of what? Past? Future? What is any spring but a mindless rearrangement of cells in the crust of the spinning earth as it floats in endless circuit of its sun? What is the sun itself but one of a billion insensible stars forever going nowhere into nothingness? Infinity! But soon the merciful valves and switches of his brain begin to do their tired work, and “The spring of Nineteen-Ought-Six,” he is able to say. “Or no, wait-” and his blood runs cold again as the galaxies revolve. “Wait! Nineteen-Ought — Four.”… He may have forgotten the shape of his first wife’s smile and the sound of her voice in tears, but by imposing a set of numerals on her death, he has imposed coherence on his own life and on life itself… “Yes sir,” he can say with authority, “nineteen-Ought-Four,” and the stars tonight will please him as tokens of his ultimate heavenly rest. He has brought order out of chaos.

SYNCHRONICITY 'The earth is alive, and it feels with you. It follows your footsteps, your search, with equal anxiety, because it will be transfigured in your triumph. The end of Kaliyuga and the entry into a new Golden Age depend on the results of your war. The earth by itself cannot finish the work that Nature leaves incomplete. Today the earth has joined forces with man in his destructive passion. The great catastrophe will occur in the first years of the Age of Aquarius. But if you can find the entrance to the Invisible Double of this earth, fulfilling the mystery of 'loveless A-Mor', the volcanoes will become calm, the earthquake will cease and the catastrophe will be avoided. 'There is an essential 'synchronicity' between the soul and the landscape. What you achieve in yourself will have repercussions in even the remotest corner of the universe, like the ringing of a bell which announces a triumph or a defeat, producing irreversible effects in a secret centre where Destiny acts. The Archetype is indivisible and, if you once confront it in an essential manner, the effects are universal and valid for all eternity. The old Chinese saying expresses it well: 'If a man, sitting in his room, thinks the right thoughts, he will be heard thousands of leagues away.' And the alchemical saying, too: 'It doesn't matter how alone you are. If you do true work, unknown friends will come to your aid.' 'What I have called "synchronicity', Nietzsche called 'lucky occurrences filled with meaning'. It becomes a poetic dialogue, a concerto for two violins, between the man-magician and Nature. The world presents you with a 'lucky occurrence filled with meaning', it hands you a subtle, almost secret message, something which happens without apparent reason, a-causal, but which you feel is full of meaning. This being exactly what the world is looking for, that you should extract that meaning from it, which you alone are capable of seeing, because it 'synchronises', it fully coincides with your immediate state of mind, with an event in your life, so that it is able to transform itself, with your assistance, into legend and destiny. A lucky occurrence which transformed itself into Destiny. And once you have achieved this, everything will appear to become the same as before, as if nothing had happened. Nevertheless, everything has changed fundamentally and for all time, although the only ones to know it will be you and the earth — which is now your earth, your world, since it has given itself up to you so that you can make it fruitful. 'The earth has made itself invisible inside you', as Rilke would say, it has become an individualised universe inside you. And although perhaps nothing may have changed, 'it might seem as if it were so, it might seem as if it were so', to use your own words. And you will be a creative God of the world; because you have conceived a Non-Existent Flower. You have given a meaning to your flower.

It was through this imposed accumulation of chaos that she struggled to move now: beyond it lay simplicity, unmeasurable, residence of perfection, where nothing was created, where originality did not exist: because it was origin; where once she was there work and thought in causal and stumbling sequence did not exist, but only transcription: where the poem she knew but could not write existed, ready-formed, awaiting recovery in that moment when the writing down of it was impossible: because she was the poem. Her hand tipped toward the paper, black stroke the pen made there, but only that stroke, line of uncertainty. She called her memory, screamed for it, trying to scream through it and beyond it, damned accumulation that bound her in time: my memory, my bed, my stomach, my terror, my hope, my poem, my God: the meanness of my. Must the flames of hell be ninety-story blazes? or simply these small sharp tongues of fire that nibble and fall to, savouring the edges and then consume, swept by the wind of terror at exposing one's self, losing the aggregate of meannesses which compose identity, in flames never reaching full roaring crescendo but scorch through a life like fire in grass, in the world of time the clock tells. Every tick, synchronised, tears off a fragment of the lives run by them, the circling hands reflected in those eyes watching their repetition in an anxiety which draws the whole face toward pupiled voids and finally, leaves lines there, uncertain strokes woven into the flesh, the fabric of anxiety, double-webbed round dark-centered jellies which reflect nothing. Only that fabric remains, pleached in the pattern of the bondage which has a beginning and an end, with scientific meanness in attention to details, of a thousand things which should not have happened, and did; of myriad mean events which should have happened, and did not: waited for, denied, until life is lived in fragments, unrelated until death, and the wrist watch stops.

Encore une fois, l’idée d’un logiciel pour lire et synchroniser sa musique n’est pas de Steve Jobs. D’ailleurs, iTunes au départ s’appelle SoundJam. Apple l’a racheté en 2000 et a incorporé l’équipe en son sein pour le transformer en iTunes. On pouvait, avant l’arrivée du Music Store, acheter de la musique en ligne. Mais encore une fois, c’est la facilité d’utilisation et le soucis du détail qui a amené Apple là où elle est. Steve Jobs a été un bon patron, qui a su négocier avec les majors et qui a bien managé le projet.

perhaps happiness is synchronising one’s personal delusions of meaning with the prevailing collective delusions.

there is a time for everything. When time and action are synchronised - right action at the right time by the right person - achievement and success are normally the outcome. But, like most things in life, there is an element of the G-factor for getting things right. You may study the situation, carry out analysis and projections, seek and employ experts and consultants and do all that you know and believe have to be done, but unless your plans and programmes are in tandem with the plan and purpose of God, your efforts may amount to little or nothing.

When darkness falls, I see blue light I see the stars, the light perception This complex and simple synchronisation My altered wings, the cell expansion BOOK: LIFTING THE VAIL By: A. M. FRITH Available on Amazon

There was no thunder, no crack of lightning to announce the arrival of the storm. The amassing clouds simply burst. The air was set in motion as the rain came tumbling and rustling towards the ground in synchronised freefall. I felt a rush of vertigo in my stomach as I braced for impact. A curtain of rain was soon pouring off the clay shingles. The sheer driving force sent mud splashing up where we sat, and soon formed a rut in the flower garden along the edge of the porch.

...in the tonic chord of G-major there is a significant level of clash between the wave profiles of the notes, but the rate of overlap or synchronisation exceeds the rate of clash, so order succeeds in outweighing complexity. In this one chord is played out the archetypal battle between order and anarchy. What matters is that there is a significant rate of conflict between consonance and dissonance. Harmony incorporates dissonance but synchrony outweighs conflict . This idea goes back at least as far as the medieval scholar Boethius who defined consonance or harmony as ‘a unified concordance of sounds dissimilar in themselves’.

appreciate the importance of rhythmical breathing it is sufficient to say that is it “synchronises inherent cardiovascular rhythms and modify baroreflex sensitivity.”[150] In lay language it means slow rhythmical breathing helps cardiac patients live longer. Interestingly, reciting Ave Maria prayer and yoga mantra results in rhythmical six breaths per minute. Maybe that’s why people who go to church at least once a week extend the lifespan by seven years.[151]

Teenage Fanclub dive impressively into the water headfirst, like a synchronised five-man Olympic swimming team. Joe McAlinden

Man on his death bed regrets i could have breathed in universal sync Experienced the cosmic link Life passed by in a blink Couldn't sleep more than forty winks! Think... Let your rhythm with life get synchronised... Get #Mickeymized!

Now, if Tammuz was, as we have seen, the same as Zoroaster, the god of the ancient "fire-worshippers," and if his festival in Babylon so exactly synchronised with the feast of the Nativity of St. John, what wonder that that feast is still celebrated by the blazing "Baal-fires," and that it presents so faithful a copy of what was condemned by Jehovah of old in His ancient people when they "made their children pass through the fire to Moloch"? But who that knows anything of the Gospel would call such a festival as this a Christian festival?

Spike, rake, sponge, charge, wad, shot, wad – the gun crews worked like automatons. There was something extraordinary in the way that every man performed his motions as a part of the action. Every movement was synchronised with the next. They were a perfect machine – each one a piece of the mech- anism, like the wheels of the watch in his pocket. He could think of no other example of men working together with such precision. This was man, industry and science in unison. Was this the way of the future? It was a wondrous and near-perfect thing. But it was a perfection bent on destruction.

Most of us Christians live as though Jesus is dead. The way we live our lives, …”Love thy neighbor as thyself..” Can we see that? Just Hate along the way… A quake of panic and our faith diminishes just at the sight of trouble; Turning Jesus’ teachings so lightly as though , it is a piece of fiction. Hating to hear the Truth of the Word , and try to synchronise the Word that fits us only, no more teachable, we do not take rebuking for our wrongs. Whatever the Bible has condemned as Sin, we try to manipulate it as to disprove the Bible and drag ourselves into the devil’s lie.. And many others… Jesus is not dead, He is alive!! And His coming is nearer, At the Blink of an Eye, and We will be struck in awe if His Return is today or tomorrow. There is still time to turn away from our sins and asking Him to come into our lives, into our Hearts ♥️. He loves and He cares, He’s just a prayer away..

En rangeant le film super-huit, je sais que le moment est venu de trier mes souvenirs pour écrire ton histoire. Une histoire dont je serais la monteuse. La menteuse. Celle qui comble les vides, synchronise gestes et paroles. Celle qui rejoue le passé. Je connais la langue des absents. C'est toi qui me l'as apprise.

Eclatant de rire, Sarah enfourcha la bicyclette, et resta immobile. – Et maintenant ? demanda-t-elle. Incrédule, Jesse contempla les longues jambes de la jeune femme et poussa un soupir. – Pose un pied après l'autre sur les pédales, et avance. Docile, Sarah obéit. La bicyclette grinça, fit un bond en avant, puis vacilla, et Sarah tomba sur l'herbe, riant aux larmes. – Recommence ! cria Jesse. Et elle recommença. Chaque fois, elle avançait un petit peu plus, mais elle perdait l'équilibre dès qu'elle tentait de synchroniser ses mouvements. Dieu que c'était drôle ! Sarah ne s'était jamais tant amusée de sa vie. Elle riait tant qu'il lui était parfois difficile de se remettre en selle. Et puis, tout d'un coup, elle ne tomba plus. Etonnée, elle retint son rire et continua à pédaler à toute vitesse. Elle dévala le sentier qui menait à la route, et s'engagea sur le chemin. Comment faisait-on pour s'arrêter ?

Spike, rake, sponge, charge, wad, shot, wad – the gun crews worked like automatons. There was something extraordinary in the way that every man performed his motions as a part of the action. Every movement was synchronised with the next. They were a perfect machine – each one a piece of the mechanism, like the wheels of the watch in his pocket. He could think of no other example of men working together with such precision. This was man, industry and science in unison. Was this the way of the future? It was a wondrous and near-perfect thing. But it was a perfection bent on destruction.

It was through this imposed accumulation of chaos that she struggled to move now: beyond it lay simplicity, unmeasurable, residence of perfection, where nothing was created, where originality did not exist: because it was origin; where once she was there work and thought in causal and stumbling sequence did not exist, but only transcription: where the poem she knew but could not write existed, ready-formed, awaiting recovery in that moment when the writing down of it was impossible: because she was the poem. Her hand tipped toward the paper, black stroke the pen made there, but only that stroke, line of uncertainty. She called her memory, screamed for it, trying to scream through it and beyond it, damned accumulation that bound her in time: my memory, my bed, my stomach, my terror, my hope, my poem, my God: the meanness of my. Must the flames of hell be ninety-story blazes? or simply these small sharp tongues of fire that nibble and fall to, savouring the edges and then consume, swept by the wind of terror at exposing one's self, losing the aggregate of meannesses which compose identity, in flames never reaching full roaring crescendo but scorch through a life like fire in grass, in the world of time the clock tells. Every tick, synchronised, tears off a fragment of the lives run by them, the circling hands reflected in those eyes watching their repetition in an anxiety which draws the whole face toward pupiled voids and finally, leaves lines there, uncertain strokes woven into the flesh, the fabric of anxiety, double-webbed round dark-centered jellies which reflect nothing. Only that fabric remains, pleached in the pattern of the bondage which has a beginning and an end, with scientific meanness in attention to details, of a thousand things which should not have happened, and did; of myriad mean events which should have happened, and did not: waited for, denied, until life is lived in fragments, unrelated until death, and the wrist watch stops.

and can suddenly lash out for no apparent reason. These people also tend to manifest very inharmonious situations where natural timing is out of synchronisation and nothing seems easy, as though life were deliberately blocking one’s path.

On hearing that she was to continue to act as Malcolm Sage's secretary, Miss Gladys Norman had done a barn-dance across the room, her arrival at the door synchronising with the appearance of Malcolm Sage from without. It had become a tradition at Department Z that "M.S." could always be depended upon to arrive at the most embarrassing moment of any little dramatic episode; but it was equally well-known that he possessed a "blind-side" to his vision. They called it "the Nelson touch.

Whispersync synchronises your Kindle device so that purchases and book samples downloaded in Kindle apps or on other Kindle devices registered with your account are always available to you. This enables you to read a few pages using the Kindle application on your iPhone, iPad or Android device

I have some great news Celt. I've accepted an offer from an investor to fund an expansion of Amnesia Inc's work: we'll now be moving into the arena of full memory transplants, trading of futures and pasts and exploration of pssoible memory synchronisation, I want you to utilize your knowledge to head the new division. Professor Huma explained. Consider it a promotion with a very lucrative pay rise.

perhaps happiness is synchronising one’s personal delusions of meaning with the prevailing collective delusions. As long as my personal narrative is in line with the narratives of the people around me, I can convince myself that my life is meaningful, and find happiness in that conviction.

So our medieval ancestors were happy because they found meaning to life in collective delusions about the afterlife? Yes. As long as nobody punctured their fantasies, why shouldn’t they? As far as we can tell, from a purely scientific viewpoint, human life has absolutely no meaning. Humans are the outcome of blind evolutionary processes that operate without goal or purpose. Our actions are not part of some divine cosmic plan, and if planet Earth were to blow up tomorrow morning, the universe would probably keep going about its business as usual. As far as we can tell at this point, human subjectivity would not be missed. Hence any meaning that people ascribe to their lives is just a delusion. The other-worldly meanings medieval people found in their lives were no more deluded than the modern humanist, nationalist and capitalist meanings modern people find. The scientist who says her life is meaningful because she increases the store of human knowledge, the soldier who declares that his life is meaningful because he fights to defend his homeland, and the entrepreneur who finds meaning in building a new company are no less delusional than their medieval counterparts who found meaning in reading scriptures, going on a crusade or building a new cathedral. So perhaps happiness is synchronising one’s personal delusions of meaning with the prevailing collective delusions. As long as my personal narrative is in line with the narratives of the people around me, I can convince myself that my life is meaningful, and find happiness in that conviction.

Having a deep conversation with someone who has a brilliant mind & beautiful soul is a form of intimacy that goes beyond the surface. There's magic in this synchronisation because the exchange of ideas, emotions, and perspectives transcends the physical and touches the souls.