Retiring back a while sufficed at what they are, but never forgotten, I harbor for good or bad, I permit to speak at every hazard, Nature without check with original energy.

ince she, the coral, and the water were bonded by the breath, she worried the surface was still no place for girls like her.

It always sounded like a mourning song. Maybe they lost something too, she thought.

“Girls like we,” they paused, lightly grazing the coral blooms budding on their brow, “always had to live ’pon the edges. Alone.”

But for girls like her, the sea was their backdoor. Girls growing soft with gills, pores, and polyps, just as they had grown otherwise. That little pill — that little piece of care — was one of the keys to their survival. Breath had been found underwater. As above, so below. Changing in the ways they needed to. And the sea — so choked with plastic — she changed too. Toxic microbeads. Hormonal plankton. Water in transition. Everything it held, changed. She knew what it was like to suffocate, both her and the sea. And so, she breathed what she could once the air began to thin. Oxygen depleted, estrogen on tap. A different kind of breath for a different kind of life for a different kind of girl. They were one inside each other, she and her — the sea and her. She and all the girls who made it through. A plural her of infinite pleasure. Everything wet was her.

And when Dorian came, the water stepped into her.

A mold of some nameless little white boy with a basin on his head. The same child cast in concrete and painted enamel-white to live in every single yard on the island. She could see his pristine whiteness didn’t last. He was encased in the blades of sea fans and an ooze of pink coral. Sea stars nested in his basin. Not a bird in sight. Just shoals of fish floating around, indifferent to this child’s drowning.

All of her panicked for a second, trying to catch her breath too fast through every living pore. Which body was she in now? She patted herself down. No moth-eaten shirt. No denim shorts. Just rubbery brown skin oozing with curls and coral.

Once, a supermarket. Now, a ruin brained in coral. Elliptical stars bloomed throughout the darkness. A colony of hungry mouths to feed … She never wanted to be that — a colony. She wanted a family, sure, but not whatever this was. Rooted and bound to your species. Repeating and repeating an ideal body. An ideal mind. Not allowed to have your own thoughts. Never able to see further than the horizons of the colony.

Any soreness would be softened by her second eyelids.

Relays, string figures, pass-ing patterns back and forth, giving and receiving, patterning, holdingthe unasked-for pattern in one’s hands, response-ability; that is core towhat I mean by staying with the trouble in serious multispecies worlds.Becoming-with, not becoming, is the name of the game; becoming-withis how partners are, in Vinciane Despret’s terms, rendered capable.7 On-

How has your life been blessed by living the Gospel and how has it sanctified you?

The child wants to conquer death by becoming the creator and sustainer of its own life. To be one's own father is to be one's own origin. In Buddhist terms, we could say that the Oedipal project is the attempt of the developing sense of self to become autonomous. It is the quest to deny one's groundlessness by becoming one's own ground: the ground (socially conditioned and approved but nonetheless illusory) of being an independent person, a self-sufficient Cartesian ego.

PeterSmith.Org is my commonplace book, covering teaching, research, technology, and whatever else takes my fancy. This site is in a constant state of development and 'becoming'.

Human beings are different from what they seem to be thinking, perceiving, or saying asmediated by social symbolic systems [29 ]. They are different from how they are represented intheir own narratives, they are different from language itself. Interestingly, learning to consciouslybecome aware to that difference—the bare human spirit, the preindividual, or being as becoming asSimondon [30 ] puts it—appears to be the state of mind towards which many spiritual traditionsare guiding. David R. Weinbaum (Weaver) refers to this state as thought sans image [ 13], offering itscontemporary conceptualisation via the metaphysical theories of Henri Bergson, Gilbert Simondon andGilles Deleuze, in combination with the enactive theory of cognition [14 ] and inputs from complexityscience

supports standard Markdown (with some minor modifications) and various extensions that have been made popular by the PHP Markdown Extra package and Maruku

Even if the damned thing would be really helpful in the long run, I can't give it the time and attention needed to make it work again ...  Not right now. And ultimately never.

In principle, the naming things in code need only be temporary, but names in code stick just like nicknames at school.

When you’re implementing a bad plan yourself, instead of having a mentor bail you out by fixing it, a few really useful things happen:You learn many more details about why it was a bad idea. If someone else tells you your plan is bad, they’ll probably list the top two or three reasons. By actually following through, you’ll also get to learn reasons 4–1,217.You spend about 100x more time thinking about how you’ll avoid ever making that type of mistake again, i.e., digesting what you’ve learned and integrating it into your overall decision-making.By watching my mistakes and successes play out well or badly over the course of months, I was able to build much more detailed, precise models about what does and doesn’t matter for long-term codebase health. Eventually, that let me make architectural decisions with much more conviction.

becoming

we are ceasing to be and what we are in theprocess of becoming