Sometimes thinking is a bad idea. Ian Leslie looks at art, sport and academic research to make the case for unthinking.
Unthinking is the ability to apply years of learning at the crucial moment by removing your thinking self from the equation.
Unthinking isn’t ignorance, self-delusion or just luck. It leads to the type of performance only achieved through patience, practice and perseverance.
A race is a work of art that people can look at and be affected in as many ways they’re capable of understanding.Steve Prefontaine
It’s been a lot of work and meant several weeks of sleeping in the basement, but the floors are complete and I’ve begun to move furniture.
Handcuffed to a chair, he was subjected to about 50 interrogation sessions, many of which started with the question: “What is your occupation?” When Mr Ai replied that he was an artist, his inquisitor would pound the table and say, “Anyone can call himself an artist. I think you are at most an art worker.”
This passage from this week’s Economist has really stuck with me. Ai Weiwi’s assertion he is an artist seems to be the assertion he is an individual. It’s what was so troubling to his interrogator.
A note given to Apple employees on their first day at work.There’s work and there’s your life’s work.
The kind of work that has your fingerprints all over it. The kind of work that you’d never compromise on. That you’d sacrifice a weekend for. You can do that kind of work at Apple. People don’t come here to play it safe. They come here to swim in the deep end.
Something big. Something that couldn’t happen anywhere else.
Welcome to Apple.
We wish Adam the best of luck and hope his life is filled with many, many more fine examples of decorative male facial hair. You have led by example.Today, I bid a co-worker (and his mustache) farewell in an office-wide email. These were the last two sentences.
A view from my seat at the Drake Relays, Saturday session, April 28, 2012. This year marked my 15th year attending the relays as either an athlete or spectator. The performance of the day was Wallace Spearmon’s 20.02 in the 200m for a stadium record.
Written in 2003 after a run. Asides added today. Published with sentiment.
That was the night I planned to run six, but instead ended up on a gravel road in the middle of a twelve-mile loop. It was still light enough to see, even beyond the glow of the city lights, because the moon was full and the night was clear.The night sky was black like ink, and the moon was bright against it. I noticed my shadow over my right shoulder, it was clearly defined against the soft glow of the light blue limestone. I noticed how much different it looked than during the day—softer maybe.
For a while I only listened to the rocks under my feet and my steady breaths. I began to wonder why I’d changed my mind. Why didn’t I just run what I’d planned? If you’d asked me if I planned to run long, I’m sure I would have given you a long list of reasons why it was a bad idea. As a runner you’re always thinking of the context of your run, what you ran in the near past and what you would be running in the near future. We put in a lot of miles the week before, and besides it was late and I was tired. What makes you think twice about a long run isn’t the time or feeling involved in doing it, it’s the repercussions the run has on your week if not well timed. The morning after when your body aches and creaks you begin to curse your poor judgement from the day before. There is, however, something about running at night that’s different than the day. Something, I’m sure I’ll forget by morning.
I felt much different than the day before. It was actually the first run in a long time to feel good, it was an intoxicating feeling and was definitely the “runner’s high” everyone talks about. I left the house an hour or so before, and it took a moment to remember what had prompted me to run when I did. I thought hard to recall the exact words, but couldn’t. All I really knew was I was frustrated, my head burned and my mind raced. I laced up my shoes and started my watch on my way out the front door. It happened earlier that week too, maybe on Tuesday, but it was hard to remember. My memory faded and I again focused on my shadow. I was only a few feet from the ditch and my outline became a bit more obscure against the tall weeds.
I looked at my watch and figured my split for the second half was probably a little faster. I was only about a quarter mile from town, so the lights began to over-take the night sky. The only thing I heard between my breaths were my near silent feet on the black grass next to the sidewalk. The sky wasn’t nearly as dark as I remembered it from a few moments before, and the moon was nearly extinguished by the amber street lights. As I approached each light my shadow caught me from behind and then lengthened out in front of my feet as I passed. I watched my shadow for a while and then noticed the pace the ground traveled under my feet. I had started to feel tired a couple miles back, but had I quickened the pace? I looked at my watch. I was faster, and by a couple minutes.
Driving home on S75. Days like this, I’m glad I live a close drive to the country, which if you live in Iowa—is anywhere.
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