No title available
tumblr dot com
祝日 / Permanent Vacation
Claire Keane
RMH
Origami Around
No title available
styofa doing anything
Stranger Things
we're not kids anymore.
Aqua Utopia｜海の底で記憶を紡ぐ
Misplaced Lens Cap
TVSTRANGERTHINGS
DEAR READER
pixel skylines
❣ Chile in a Photography ❣
Peter Solarz
I'd rather be in outer space 🛸
Cosmic Funnies
Sweet Seals For You, Always
seen from Malaysia
seen from Germany
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Germany
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United Kingdom
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Australia
seen from Japan
seen from Germany
seen from Malaysia
seen from Malaysia
seen from Canada
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seen from United States
@sletrabbill
Off into an adventue
What a drama to the morning... Waking. Easing up from deep sleep. The house is waking... movement... passion of breathing. Slowly up from deep sleep. It is off to see the world. Out and out again. Off to see the world. In that travel, coming home seems sweet and wonderful.
From Seth... Why allows the dance.
Seth Godin says it well... I just hear the song that flows ... when why allows the dance. Sitting in a playing circle last night... and why allowed the dance. The frame agreed. The key and tempo found. A lyric supported... and why allowed the dance. Food shared. Conversation and community celebrated... and why allows the dance. The fiddle speaks... the bass speaks too. Both are played with delight. A guitar and a limber Jack... all round out the night. The fine ale flows... with songs and fun, the children dance and elders rock... this why... this why allows the dance. Thank you Seth... and why allows the dance.
The Remembering
To never forget is to sit in frozen memory. To remember is to hold, foster and pass on the wisdom. When I remember and put it in narrative, my children appreciate the moment. When I say that I will never forget... I am not remembering my own mortality. Holding the links of care, creation and wonder in moment... Remembering...
Yuriko Kotani / Russell Howard’s Stand Up Central
"Ish"
for those who still don't fucking get it
Nazis want Jews, Muslims, POC, LGBTQP people, ‘non-contributing’ disabled people dead just for existing.
Antifas want Nazis dead because they are aware of the above and want those people to be safe.
It is not “the same thing”. It is not “more hate”. It is defending the world against people who want most of the people in it dead.
"i know you're depressed and all, but i really don't think you try sometimes" "i expect your (able) siblings to do work, don't be lazy!" (not for translation but my parents don't seem to know that depression often causes major fatigue?????)
To the parents:
Gosh, people can be pretty uninformed, friend. (Also, sorry this took so long. Didn’t have much time these past few weeks.)
~ Admin Sylver
a muggleborn student coming to hogwarts with a thermos flask and filling it with tea in the morning so it stays hot all day and their pureblood friends are like “whoa what spell did you use for that” and they’re like “?????? it’s just a thermos???” and all the pureblood students start pointing their wands at cups and saying “THERMOS”
THERMOS
plot twist: it works, mugs suddenly start keeping tea at the perfect temperature for the caster all day. students in muggle studies start experimenting with other muggle jargon and a new generation of magic spells are born, propelling the stagnated wizard community into the technological age
*points wand at book* KINDLE!!!! *book propels itself into fireplace and bursts into flames* I FUCKED UP I FUCKED UP
First smiled... then laughed out loud. Awesome.
Check out this article from Ventura County Star: Colleen Cason: Student to give 1st Amendment a test http://www.vcstar.com/story/news/columnists/2017/01/06/colleen-cason-student-give-1st-amendment-test/96246840/
You live in a world where nobody could die until they have carried out their purpose. You have done everything conceivable, but you’re still alive after centuries.
By the time you’re 95, you’re getting a little worried. You celebrate your birthday alone, hands trembling, as you light the candles on a cake you baked yourself. You eat little and decide to share the rest with your loved ones. Your “finished business” is not nearly close to being finished; you’re wrinkled and shaky, but the muscles under your skin burn with a healthy vigor that makes the long walk to and from the cemetery easy breezy.
By next year, you and your six degrees will have cured two more types of cancer, birthed a new modern art movement, and successfully brokered a tentative peace between two warring nations. And about thirty other incredible things.
You make your usual journey to the cemetery on strong limbs.
By the time you’re 150, you’re a bit of a weirdo. A couple of people at work joke about you getting your own article or news story. They say nice things, like that they’re glad you’re here and that you’re doing good in the world, and if anyone deserves a good rest? It’s you.
By the end of the day they wish you well and go back to homes filled with people they haven’t had a chance to outlive yet.
By the time you’re 200, you’re a phenomenon. Someone’s been shoving their nose where it doesn’t belong, because one morning there’s a crowd of reporters outside your door. You beat them off your late mother’s porch with your late father’s favorite broom.
You’re a little bitter (who wouldn’t be?) but you crack the teeniest smirk when a special headline greets you the next morning: “DERANGED ELDERLY PERSON ATTACKS NEWS CREW.” You grill yourself a steak for breakfast and wonder if they’re going to cry to some law firm about suing you.
You and your attorney’s license want to see them fucking try.
By the time you’re 1000, you’re old news. You’ve traveled around the world exactly 671 times. You’ve been to the moon. You’ve done everything imaginable, donned every hat possible. Math, art, history, science, English, foreign language—at one point you just kept flipping coins and going back to school and trying to reinvent your life in new, interesting directions. At 1000 years old, you’re the jack of all trades and you hold the world record for most world records. Which includes the world record for “Oldest Person Alive.”
It’s annoying.
You wonder where you went wrong. Was this payback for trying to feed your twin mud when you were six? Or that time you belly-flopped onto Mom’s pristine IKEA table? (You were eight—you hadn’t known tables could break, for God’s sake.) Or that time when you were twelve and accidentally almost ran over a rabbit with your bike back when your family used to go camping, or that time you drew a dick on the tag of your twin’s mustard yellow graduation gown when they weren’t looking, or—
You should have enough memories of your family to fill a book, but memory lane pitters off sooner than it should. It scares you enough to quit work. You’re practically filthy rich from all your past endeavors, so you spend a year at your desk on your laptop, remembering.
You make the #1 best sellers list the following year. A movie is put into production. You recoil from the thought of unfamiliar faces acting out the things and words your loved ones used to say and do, so you swear off cinema for the next hundred years. Just to be safe.
(The movie generates more attention to the book. The book makes you even more money. You decide to set up another charity organization, because what the heck. Maybe this one will finally let you die already.)
(One hundred and ones years later, you stumble across a cheap digital copy of the movie. You buy it and crush it under a hydraulic press out of spite.)
By the time you’re 1003 years old, you have a revolutionary thought. Maybe your purpose in life is to be bad. To be a god awful person. To be the scum of the earth.
You don’t want to rush into anything all willy-nilly, so you start small. You go out to eat a simple restaurant, finish a delicious meal, and leave without tipping the waitress.
You come back exactly five minutes later, blubbering, blank check in hand to pay off their student loans.
You bring ice cream cake to the cemetery that year.
At 10,000 years old, you are officially Never Going To Die. You aren’t religious, but if there’s a great big somewhere in the sky where all the people you’ve ever loved are living it up, you are never going to reach it.
You’re bored and maybe a little more than slightly clinically depressed, but you’ve learned to accept this.
At this point you’ve disappeared under a new alias again and again. You spend one “life time” doing simple, mundane things, working simple, mundane jobs. You pretend you’re insignificant and avoid conversation. You fake your own death in what you hope are increasingly amusing scenarios to whatever sick fuck in the sky plopped you down on this miserable planet. You stop baking cake.
One day, on your way back from your thirtieth job as a librarian in a row, you see a young person leaning over a large, famous bridge like they’re contemplating a quick, painless jump. This annoys the crap out of you because (1) any idiot knows they can’t die until they fulfill their “purpose” and (2) you know from firsthand experience that that shit hurts like hell.
You swing your bag and clock them in the face.
Then you run because you realize you just clocked a random person in the face. What the hell. Why do you do the things you do.
The youth finds you, because karma is a bitch and it doesn’t matter how many puppy mills you’ve shut down.
You think spite is probably their prime motive for staying in rather pristine health (they are freshly showered and lack any obvious bandages and casts) up until you see the look on their face. You have no idea how or why, but they look at you with recognition shining in their tired eyes.
“You’re XXXXX XXXXX,” they breathe.
You flinch at the first mention of your real name in centuries.
Maybe you should have gotten that plastic surgery a while back, because after that they keep hounding you with their questions. You mix up your route back to your apartment because they keep magically finding you, but then one day you come home to them dozing off on your doormat with their half-finished calculus homework.
(“What’s it like, to live for so long?” They ask.
“Torture,” you snap.)
(“Did you really pay off a stranger’s student loans?” They ask, maybe a little hopefully.
“Shut up,” you snap, and help them through another problem.)
At one point there’s a hurricane. The city is untouched, but you all evacuated anyway and now everything’s a mess—including plane tickets and holiday plans. The youth doesn’t get to go home for Thanksgiving, so they pop up at your door like a stray cat. But you’re anticipating that, so you set up a proper meal like the ones your parents used to make.
You think it’d be appreciated, so you bake cake.
(As it turns out, they hate cake but try to hide it. You shove a container of it at them as they walk out the door anyway.)
You swear you don’t care and don’t mean to, but you learn a lot about the youth anyway. Like how they’re in their freshman year, or how they’re an entire coast away from home. Or like how they don’t know what to major in and how they struggle to make friends.
(“I guess I’m just weird,” they say, picking at their food.
“You’re absolutely right,” you agree. “I’m glad we can agree on something.”)
Sometimes their questions are easy.
(“How many bones are in the human body again?”
“More than five.”)
Sometimes they’re tough.
(“I’m worried,” they admit. “That I won’t make something of myself. That I’ll live and die as nothing.”
You pause from feeding the virtual cats on your phone, frowning. “Don’t be,” you say very helpfully. You try again, “You’ll be something.”)
Sometimes, they’re not even questions.
(“I’m so tired.”)
(“I hate my life.”)
(“I want to die.”)
Sometimes, you don’t really know what to say. Sometimes you’re not sure if you’re helping or hindering.
(“That’s fair.”)
(“I do, too.”)
(“Life really sucks, doesn’t it?”)
They keep coming back anyway. Somewhere along the way, you find yourself not minding.
At 10,001 years old, you open the front door on your birthday and are greeted by the most horrendously misshapen cake you’ve ever laid eyes on.
You don’t cry. You swear, swear, you don’t cry. But you do laugh and give them a noogie.
After they leave, you realize too late that they’ve stuffed the leftovers in your refrigerator when you weren’t looking.
At 10,002 years old, you’re exchanging holiday cards and gifts, too. They send you a nice blue sweater with the letters “WALKING DEAD” in giant, neon, comic sans lettering. You send them a box of cake mix.
At 10,003 year old, it feels like just yesterday you were just smacking the shit out of the kid who wanted to jump.
You feel like a proud parent when they receive their diploma, which is ridiculous because you’re sitting right by their bawling parents, offering them tissues.
You’ve been to over a hundred of your own college graduations, but when they punch the air in triumph you agree that this is probably the most special.
(As smart as you know they are, they’re still a little thick-headed. It takes them a year to notice the cake doodle you scribbled into the tag of their graduation gown.)
When the ceremony is done and over, you hug them with all your might because as far as you know, this may be the last time you see them. People grow up, get jobs, sometimes even build whole families. And people need to be let go of, to be free, to get the breathing space to do any of that.
“Don’t disappear off the face of the earth anytime soon, okay?” They ask you earnestly, like they’re already thinking ten steps ahead of you. “Or, at least tell me about it first, ‘Leslie Smith.’”
It is not your most creative alias, you will admit. You say theatrically, “Don’t worry. My next identity will be flashier. ‘Beyoncé’ or ‘John Lennon,’ maybe.”
They give you a blank stare that reminds you exactly how old you really are. It makes you laugh.
One long-winded dinner in a nice restaurant later, after you and their parents trade silly story after silly story about the dumb stuff you’ve collectively seen the youth do (and after a lot of dramatic groaning on their part), you part ways. Home is conveniently a short walk away so you refuse their offer for a ride. You’ve been in near perfect health for thousands of years anyway.
(Not like their parents know that.)
(“Thank you,” the youth says intently, eyes shining with something you can’t place. You smile instinctively, because someone important is thanking you even though you don’t know why. You ruffle their hair one last time.)
By the time you reach the little apartment that’s come to almost resemble something like “home” in your eyes, your breath is a little heavier than it should be. Your limbs, a little more tired than they should be.
And maybe you don’t recognize the signs for what they are right away. Maybe you shrug them off for a few days until they persist, neither growing worse or better, but calling your attention and annoyance all the same. And maybe you nearly topple when you do realize what’s going on. Maybe you feel like the whole world’s spinning at speeds impossible. Maybe you overexert yourself just to be sure, just to see if you are a little weaker than you were some days before, that you may, that you might—that you could finally—it feels…
…like the smallest hint of progress.
all you need to know about the evolution of harmony
1500s: yikes is that a fourth? it's so dissonant!! yuck!
1900s: how many tritones can i fit in one chord
"When Dais and Floor are in concert."
What happens when leadership, made new, must grow up in that leadership? What happens when, in throwing the bums out, the new folks, find that there are many things that need to be worked through. The simple fix … may not be a fix at all. So, in genuine good faith, the work begins anew. In that newness is the journey of leaders. It is easy to stand in any position and cast dispersion upon ‘them’ who could not understand. From the floor or the chamber to the dais and back again. But, but when the floor and dais work in concert, then magic happens. The sky and stars become the limit. To have enough sure faith in self and the collective… there is a moment. It can be any moment. It is not magic. It is the hard connection, engagement and faith of both the floor and dais, in concert. On this, the rising song line.
Fog of War...
Regulatory Schemes are like gun boats. Easy to point, easy to aim. A fact pattern that diverts from standard is a crime. The most fun is that when you have a whole bunch of them ... fun boats and they all are pointing, accelerating, shooting... they may crash into each other, put holes in each other and even sink each other. The tragedy is that the individual who was the target is liable and then must compensate all of the schemes for their damages... Somewhere in there, the facts of how a standard was bent or ignored might have some impact... and it may be that it was the regulatory scheme who was a contributing factor... In our world at the moment... the call is “damn the torpedoes and full speed ahead”… Seems to me that there are some options here. Options that may include awareness and coordination. For, the current system is hurtful, destructive and collectively criminalizes daily living. Criminalization of daily living ... means that we all begin from a position of guilt. Not a very good place to begin a fight. Shame is a funny motivator to be sure.
Feeling who think or thinking who feel…
“Most of us think of ourselves as thinking creatures that feel, but we are actually feeling creatures that think.” - Dr. Jill Bolte Taylor -
On the rising song line of this morning. Glorious dawn. Songs playing in the music box in my head... shared via internet... a rehearsal recording, raw, rough, glorious in all the views... on the rising song line of this morning. The road rising to greet with a song, good companions and a stop just around the corner... on the rising song line.
Early in ranching, actually, over and over again, a decision point comes. The point where, after all thinking, analysis, prototyping, there is a moment of deciding. Realizing that each day is many of those points. The delight in that realization. So, as early so now. The learning does not stop. The more I learn. The less I know. That is a good moment.
Thinking of Napa, surrounding area and foundational shaking. When the very foundations of life shake. When we then respond by demanding more secure foundations. Which, are not a foundation but the keel of the boat that is the building. The sea upon which it sails is the land... We demand a stronger keel against a sea that may be moving in a storming direction. The application of a solution to a system that has more flex at different points. All of this makes no difference if the roof has collapsed. It is the shelter and the people of who I think at this moment.
"The Timeless Way of Building" by Christopher Alexander leapt off the shelf a couple of days ago. I backed into this book after reading the "A Pattern Language" ... Mathematician, builder, architect, philosopher, wonderful story teller, ... Chris Alexander, the day I met him, was wearing a rumpled coat, a wide knit tie, and as we walked, he and his wife were discussing travel plans that had gone far afield from plan. We, the three of us, laughed at the thought as we waited for the light to change. This was the first of three morning visits on the way to a meeting. We repeated the visits in the late afternoon too. The simple sharing of travel plans gone far afield... laughter. Bemused laughter.
As I opened the timeless way... all that sharing poured into memory. The words took on new meaning from the point of view of shared moment. And it is as if I had never read the book and that I have always known the book. It happens with songs sometimes. Heard or sung, a song can trigger that pouring into memory. This day, on the rising song line, that burbling stream of pouring memory brings a smile and a head tip to promethium charm, humor and bemused grace.
Searching - we find...
"What you search for, you will find." Don't know who said it or if that saying is complete... just am struck that many systems decide a course of response to a 'problem' and then seek to first, prove the problem and then apply the solution as conceived. Generally driven by an interest who has figured out a way to engage the money.
When the search becomes observation, the finding emerges very differently. The link between apparent outcome and how a system actually functions may not reveal itself except by just observing.
The veiling of reaction in the language of response and the searching to link the money flow to the problem... very subtle in difference with the sophisticated searcher or the sophisticated observer. The two behaviors may look much the same. The fostering of the solutions, or systems adjustments is usually not. One has a price tag and an 'expected' outcome. The other may be adjusted through new behavior which may include fallowing. Very different indeed.
To delight in doing the work that is really, really, really, really demanding, rewarding, soul-feeding, and interesting... hones the skills, draws new insight and invites the best of the 'skin' in the game. As with practicing, the getting better sometimes means casting off a way of seeing or doing that allows new ways. Even an old practiced way becomes new with the sharpening of skills through disciplined practice. The delight in the work. The really, really, really, really demanding, rewarding, soul-feeing and interesting work...
Meeting with the newest of the teachers today. When one this good shows up it is daunting. The level of demand, even what is being taught is sometimes hidden in the lesson.
To figure out the lesson. To engage the teaching. To understand the moment of clarity in that sense of 'good learning.'
In this meeting is the new observing that all may be taught in a single session. The need to repeat and repeat may not be needed for this lesson. It may all rush and then need to be taken and practiced. Much as a master class ...
The anticipation is just that, excited and as prepared as possible. The old adage... breathing is not over rated is even a note to self... with a smile and a light step it is off, once again to school. The delight in knowing that the more I learn, the less I know.
When the rising song line calls and we are freed from a worry, when the song line calls to dance. Then, Gathering, we dance!
Random Muse
Sublime beauty in Gathering this evening just past. Souls, gathered in care. Amid shift, change, even battered and heated by moving objects, shifting wheels... Yet, yet, a rising song line of infinite care, humanity, deep love, compassion, and sacred harmony... on the rising song line. The souls, gathered, Gathering... in gratitude and with dancing... Sublime beauty indeed. Rising song line.
Pumping southern moisture clouds the dawn. The rush of the early pulse of cars on the road is carried on the gentle east drift. The well head over the hill hums ... In the gentle dawning, the pulse of the waking valley calls to wake, wake and wake again in gentle quiet voice. It is day, it is morning and the fields are vibrating in joy at the sun.
Water down the hatch. Water to the growing plants. Water to bathe. Water to gently wash the grit and grime of yesterday's work... Just drops to do all of this work. To make clean that which is gritty and dirty from toil.
Rest is as water to the soul. Rest is as water to the weary mind. Now rising on the still small voice that is the rising song line... There is but a moment of contemplation and joy at the awesome power of that rest, the cleansing water. In thanks. In compassion. In thanks.
When the system that is delivering becomes more important than what is delivered and who it is delivered to... the system shifts. It becomes, not in collaboration but in competition for some limited assumption. In that shift comes emerging behavior... behavior that, in that new context makes perfect sense to a set of filters. It may make sense to all filters... but, there is now a slight dissonance ... very, very slight. Probably not heard and yet, this new emergence is a part of the system.
Over time, perhaps the small voice grows... the years pass and this dissonance rises and becomes more of the dynamic of the system. Then, one moment, the shift is complete and the dissonance becomes the melody. All of the system harmonizes to that now emerged voice.
The shift, perhaps perceived as dramatic in the moment is in fact... just the subtle adjustment to that emerging voice... Over and over this symphony is written. The elements, the transitions, the emerging themes... all practiced. All practiced in the living systems.
Symphonic Listening
Some thoughts about symphonic listening. To hear the whole of the symphony, one must be open to each voice. This is a disciplined hearing. The textures and tones of the palette of voices… all the colors. The painting that is sound. Image in sound. When a designed dissonance is given flight, it can become the sublime new theme… emerging from a dissonance into the harmony. The dance of 9 into 6. Always with and never separate…
### A working paper on facilitation process, considerations, and organizational development. Edited 08-09-14 # How We Engage: 1. Discovery of process and organizational methods. This set of work...
