Podcasts about Thays

Send us a textNeste episódio, recebemos Thays Ribeiro, coordenadora de GRC de Segurança da Informação no Hospital Sírio-Libanês, para um papo direto e inspirador sobre cibersegurança hospitalar, carreira em TI e liderança empática em ambientes críticos. De projetos sociais ao comando de estratégias em um dos maiores hospitais da América Latina, Thays compartilha como encontrou seu lugar na tecnologia – mesmo sem ter começado por ela.

Send us a textEla saiu da indústria, mergulhou na cibersegurança hospitalar e hoje lidera com propósito em um dos hospitais mais respeitados do Brasil.No próximo episódio do PodCafé Tech, recebemos Thays, especialista em GRC e inclusão digital no Hospital Sírio Libanês, uma mulher que une neurociência, empatia e tecnologia para transformar realidades.

Meu Podcast “Receios Obscuros”Meu Apoia.seEnvio de relatos por texto: ⁠receiosdoalem@gmail.comO André nos conta sobre um acontecimento que o fez sentir que seu pai, que já havia falecido, ainda estava por perto olhando por ele.Os próximos 3 relatos são da Ana, que viu um senhor estranho no metrô, mas ele não parecia ser do nosso mundo. No outro relato, ela novamente vê um homem que parecia de outra época e sumiu quando ela estava exatamente em cima da estação de metrô do primeiro relato. O terceiro relato é sobre foi sobre um ônibus que passou, mas sem explicação sumiu e ninguém em volta havia visto o mesmo.Por fim, o último relato é da Thays. Ela sentiu algo subindo na cama e acreditou ser sua irmã, mas quando olhou para o lado viu que a irmã estava dormindo.

Los actores Julia Thays y Alberick García conversan con Glatzer Tuesta en el Bloque Cultural de No Hay Derecho de Ideeleradio. No Hay Derecho en vivo de lunes a viernes, desde las 7 a. m., por el YouTube y Facebook de Ideeleradio.

A FÉ QUE IMPRESSIONA JESUS

“Seth Meyers And the Cauldron of Doom” OMG— YOU have a cauldron of doom?! I have a cauldron of doom!!! DO NOT SHAKE THIS SNOWGLOBE. I had been avoiding Rockefeller plaza for months as it was, without the sometimes accidental ending up there anyway, and I thought not once but twice or three times about changing into my regular pants so that the deep pockets could hold my keys and passports sans wallet— or a purse and considered taking a notebook as well; on the list of prohibited items were backpacks and large bags, and though the dress code seemed to be null in void at all, I was happy to be able to wear my hat at least— and almost prepared to be dogged out, the last min it e change into my harem pants would probably be the comfortable choice; looking intentionally dressed down as a statement—a broad statement that I wasn't looking to be noticed at all, or trying to be noticed. The guest for the show was nearly an EGOT winner, probably younger, and definitely skinner and more beautiful than I was; a black woman, but a British woman, and it would be almost entirely impossible to think that besides Whoopi Goldberg, an American black woman would strive to win such a thing as an EGOT herself. Still, I was looking for a cure to the writer's block and crippling depression that I had been in, however—knowing who the president of Peacock was, and after the elections at all's though I knew NBC to be left-leaning— I didn't feel at all as if I would ever belong on the stage, and was quite happily taking my place as simply a fan…and audience member, though ready to creep back into obscurity, and probably more likely than not with a pint of Ben and Jerry's after the show. I had gone to see Drew Barrymore sand makeup, and would do the same, but only as a proclamation that I had read Tina Fey's book nearly religiously now rounding three times, and I almost wish I had an oversized black t-shirt which read “hot water heater” to accompany my lax look and blonde hair—a testament to her correctness standing, as the grossities of tinder loved “the blonde”, almost as if, without the hair I would be ugly, and just as much in the same breath, unworthy of such status anyway. But more than anything, I just wanted to be able to write again, at least for my own sake, and certainly not for anyone else's. I was still in hiatus, for the better, and had not completely recovered from the unbearable racism and parallel of doom the election had tossed me into with trajectory—in this world—supposedly “fascist”. I was comfortable enough in the jeans, but had nowhere to put my phone. I was ready to be dogged out and shown what a real a list celebrity looked like, and why I simply wasn't one. I left the house with a sink full of dishes, an unmade bed, and a pile of laundry unfolded—a pile of books in boxes I had collected for my son but would cost too much to send—almost as a testament to his sick I had been since the election. In this world, I was just another poor black fat single mother— a dead beat living in poverty. In trump's world, I was an ugly, poor nothing. Everywhere I had gone about the past week, the rich seemed richer and the poor poorer, the whites whiter and the blacks blacker, good gone and evil fleeting, with the return of the motorcycles and pieces of me dying, simply giving up. I planned my return to the workforce, and the eventual fortitude of my freedom; the wealthy had become more arrogant, and the rest of us more distraught. What was I going to rocketfeller plaza for, anyway? The news. My apartment was disgusting, but at least I had been to the gym—I had run the full mile and lifted and pulled, all with the gym to myself. My harem pants still felt even better, and for the first time in me months I ventured into the world in only one waist trainer. Be prepared to be [lost in a revolving door Be cool to the two dudes in blue suits goddamnit I never know where I'm going in this bitch. I can never breath in this bitch and I don't know why. How do you get lost at the rock? Like this: [Infinitely Lost at Rockafeller Plaza] This is why I avoid this place like the plague. Maybe I'm the plague. First of all, there's no track on the floor upstairs. (I've never been upstairs.) It's just store after store of ways to spend money. This is my only pair of clean socks. No shit, this is the reason practicing your mantras on the train becomes dangerous. DANGEROUS. Somewhere in the frenzy, I remember this. Frequency, however, Not yet partial to my own inner self, and empty in the array of superstardom, I become nothing, Only a spectator of celebrity— And now, suddenly. 8 remember this day Why? Suddenly, now, in the Is moment. Where I always have been, waiting for myself— I avoid Rockerfeller plaza at all costs. Why. I heard a grimlin lives here. Now is the time for Skrillex! I would really love you forever if you didn't. Que the Arc! Oh boy, this writer's block is a doozy. The only reason I had even bothered was because it was as if I had been summoned, as if something had clocked in my sense memory where, all of a sudden, looking at an unrelated picture of some kid on Tinee, with his hands covering his mouth the way that Stefon always did, made me immidiately stop whatever I was doing—probably eating tacos or pancakes, insurmountably out of bounds— and pausing the comedian I was watching instead, just to watch Stefon, and in the way that I remembered it all, it made me laugh. Although now, I knew exactly what he was talking about by the avant-grade and strangely abysmal club scene not just of the time, but of any time in New York City— and, somehow summoning a laugh even in the darkness that had been my own distraught and depression in the previous weeks, something of a belly roll laugh might have triggered something in the alrgorithm to send last minute tickets to my email in almost that exact moment. Are they going to tell me to take off my hat?! There was no dress code, They had better not tell me to take off my motherfucking hat. I won't do it. Fuck Seth Meyers . I'm not taking off my hat for Seth Meyers. Oh yeah. That's why I'm here. I found it hard to say that I was there for such a thing; I— I turned off my peripheral vision and hyperfocus. I didn't know there would be music. Goddammit. I had deleted Shazam filming for I love New York, an all but abandoned project—the writer's block had been too real, and now the real rest had come—would I laugh at anything in show show when in reality I wanted to cry? The way the lights kept going up and down as if it were intermission only slightly distracted from the fact that I had never seen a page in real life. THEY EXIST . I had never seen an actual NBC PAGE. GODDAMMIT GET THIS BLUE SUIT LOAFER WEARING MOTHERFUCKER OUT OF MY PERIPHERAL BEFORE I LOSE IT. Shoot a midget at her. What. Just do it. Don't do that. What Don't put the midget in the cannon. What! Thays's what he's here for! I'm a stunt double! This is a stunt. That's a horrible joke. That's not a joke. SHAZAM. WTF IS THIS. Some top 40 bullshit. Good, get it ( I'm never going to have any other l exposure to top 40, ever in my life. ) Congratulations, you've made the A list What?! NO FAIR. What. What does that mean. It means I can't do shit and mandatory attendance to everything. What is everything “Everythin—g.” Man, fuck this. Alright At this moment, I realize I must be some sort of autistic. Let's get this over with… I let the sound of my own mix blare in my ears to drown out the sound of whatever pop singer was on over the loud speakers; I didn't realize there would be music, and I hoped the flutter was good l. Maybe it was the lights, or whatever, but— SUNNI BLU what in the fuck dimention is this . It's the same dimension, you're just drunk. Ah. Now what? I was as uncomfortable as ever, there was a track on the higher level, but it didn't matter, the cattle call was contained inside of velvet ropes— black ones, unlike the typical red ones, and it was at this point I realized that not only had I never seen actual NBC pages— Yo, their skirts are kinda short… RIGHT. I THOUGHT THE PAGES WERE THE PARAGON OF SANCTITY! No, those are, um… Nvm. Maybe the ugly shoes distract from the shortness of their skirts on the general basis. Oh come on, nobody gives a fuck how ugly your shoes are if your skirt is that short! These are facts, Liz. No, I'm serious what dimention is this. I already told you. I had to ask for directions three times just get here. THIS IS MY LEVEL. why is your level on acid. Cause. This is—just— Where I'm at. CUT TO: Jimmy Fallon after Mardi Gras's. Come on that's not fair! {Enter The Multiverse} What exactly isn't fair?! He's in all the scenes. Well, how else are you going to explain a time traveling helicopter?! Got him. THERES MY INVISIBLE MOTORCYCLE. I'm not going to pa— Goddamn it. I'm not going to p— It actually hurt not to write and just stand there; but I still didn't feel like myself—or sound like myself—or look like myself; I was playing a character, I just didnt know who. As I moved forward in line, the music began to fade away behind me and into the nothingness that was whatever was behind, in front of, and all around me. I hated cattle calls, but after all, I was still just a fan and as the world began to fold into chaos, I realized that my pants were falling off of me, though I had been feeling fat, and walking, and running, and cycling, and protein shaking—the only thing that had gained any extra weight was my ass, which was exactly what I was intending on hiding with my same old usual harems. My blonde hair made it so that I stuck out like a sore thumb, but that didn't matter, I was a walking statement piece and almost in a fit of tears just thinking about my own status; the NBC pages probably all had crazy incredible accolades and numerous degrees and achievements—what was I, if anything at all— ? I had put the candles out, but had I left the stove on? Did I really unplug the nail dryer and leave the stove on? I had almost washed all of the dishes, but stopped just short of right on time to leave; my producer brain was on fire and wanted more pancakes, but however hard I tried I could not find where I had placed my EBT card; probably for the better—celebrities didn't carry EBT cards, and even my awkward general being thrown off by the doorman or security— —whichever I wasn't sure— standing outside of the roller rink— probably ice this time of year, by the looks of the Zamboni in the foreground of it… ‘Don't stop writing, no matter what. ‘ Dammit, dammit dammit— That seems inappropriate. I told you to get this motherfucker out of my peripheral before something— Nevermind, don't write that. [redacted] (But imma remember this shit cause it's heavy.) A remarkable and accidental tableau, My feet flat to the floor, as my ankles bare, This is my only pair of hole-less socks. I feel so much better with my back against the wall and Listening to mau5 and, Not giving a fuck about the music playing Or the people watching But keeping it for later Forgetting how to codeswitch, Just an ever so limited existence Trying not to stick out like a sore thumb in the wrong world It's a long way up, But even longer way down, And in all the demoralizing humiliation and emasculation, I realize I'm no man at all, No man at all I realize I'm no man at all, No man at all, No mana I realized my son's Lego Lamborghini should be waiting for me as I returned to my apartment in Brooklyn probably starting but pretending not to care; I winced at everything— this was a dangerous disaster, to even be in the building at all and edging closer to death were the secrets I kept that were not only secrets, but non existences. Nothing in nothing and nothing— Oh shit, is the suffering done? This is the end of the End of the end It's the Beginning of the end It's the end of the beginning This will be the end Of the end Of the end, This will be the end of the end Of the end Of the end Of the beginning Of the end Of the beginning of the end. This will be the end Of the end Of the end Of the beginning of the beginning Of the end of the end Of the beginning Of the end This will be the end Of the beginning Of the beginning Of the beginning Of the end Of the end Of the end This will be the end Of the beginning of the beginning This will be the beginning of the beginning of the beginning This will be the beginning, The beginning of the end This will be the end of the end of the end This will be the end of the end of the end This will be the end (This will be the end) Of the beginning This will be the beginning The beginning of the beginning Of the end My friends. LET US COMMECE! All of it, this is recorded history, Smoke and mirrors, here portions and pardons This is probably why can't breathe at the rock Was I here last time; I choked last time I wrote nothing remarkable at all (Nothing remarkable at all.) I love getting lost at the rock Okay, this is the host— This is the host of the show (I think I lost my lunch before.) I was at a show, I never woke up, Okay; This is the host This is the host (This is the host) This is the host. Cue the Nirvana; Curtains go up, I don't want to see the show, I just want to host it. I don't want to get lost no more On the way to the rock Or the store Cause only one train goes there I wanna climb the straits to the top Get lost at the rock, Guess this isn't he host huh This is the lost god, That was a long walk The top of the rock off is a long jump And I'm still in talks how's every morning Someone told me not to ignore you So, this is the host, huh. Someone told me, go hard or go home (Almost time tknkove) Parenthesises, please and—Parenthetical, hypotheticals and paleontology's, Please, I need a mixologist (And anthologist) Please slow down to peace, Mr poltergeist, Please Mr poltergeist The ghost of Mr giest I'm doing a hiest Please, slow down mister poltergeist, Please for the peace Mr. Poltergeist, Or what have you? How old are you, 40. I'm the whole medium and still, Nice to meat you sir. A house made of mediums I hope that shock, And I hop to the rock there's still something in it A pogo stick Or a poltergeist Slow down, poltergeist. Terrible timing, Victoria Beckham and monsuier, Please Mr, I mean it no more— If I'm Mr ooltergieat (A policeman and polgergeist) Please, sir, no jokes. All sandwhich, no buns and pastrmi, And all the God, I'm going cold, I'm going ghost again And a the god, on all the rocks, I'm going old, I'm going cold again; On all the God on all the rocks, I'm going God, I'm going old again Hold on again, mi got a song again? I'm just a serviceman WATCH OUT FOR THE DOORMAN. MORE FUEL. So all the Rockerfeller plazas on all the earths aim alll yhr parallel dimensions can actually communicate with each other RADIO CITY BABBBBBBBYYYYYYY! OH GOD. WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE Did you get his dog's name!? I think so. Good. [meniacal rubbing of hands] good. Cue the nirvana. Cue the m— Mitosis. The migos. Nah, I can't catch the flow. There it is. [the flow is a literal] Something medicinal in this meniacal, is this I spy a specscle, monocle— monopoly, Time to go, it's the devil at my left; Time for the fight against darkness, And it all is, Cause this is the ark, Noah This is the arc, God. This is apartheid and apart from that. You're fired. What. You heard me. But—I'm Seth Meyers. That's debatable. I am! I'm Seth Meyers. If you say so. This is nonsense. It's not nonsense. It is nonsense. And it's also impossible; cause this is my show. It's my show, I'M SETH MEYERS. Debatable, Not debatable. I'm ME. THAT'S ME. Debatable. I can't even hear the words, But the bass is so fire, I summon Shazam! …I want a ham sandwhich. Oh good! He's alive. Ham. Sandwhich. What the fuck happened buddy?! Where were you man?! —Zoolander. What. disleylandhamsandwhich. Get him a sandwhich!!!!! YO QUIERO CUBANO. Here's your sandwhich. CUBANO. Remember what you look like Who you are What your place is What you weigh, And Check your status Remember how still started What your mark is And what happened to your wallet; Did you leave the stove on Do you put the show on; Did you miss your mark Your mom was hotter Please remember the circumstances In which you—- [BLACKOUT] After several days gone completely missing, Jimmy Fallon is found under the craft services table sleeping peacefully. The apparatus I entered in with Is not adjusted to this condition The biometrics are non concurrent; {enter the multiverse} I felt tragic. By the time I got back to my apartment, my ribcage was showing again—although I had only been wearing one waist trainer, it was the skimpy one, and it was already wearing, it was after all eight dollars. Really and once and for all, something had come over me at Rockerfeller plaza that I didn't understand. I was more awkward and nervous than usual, and sure that I should have eaten, but couldn't —even after a long gym session, there was no time for food before the show, and I had no stomach for it. I chose to as much as I could ignore the code switching, and the more I picked it up, the further my mind began to drift. —a door slammed. My documents were probably compromised, and my phone hacked which I might have guessed, but continuing the thought I had often wondered how or why anything could have possibly known what I had written, or how—or how anyone would know what I had written, or of the things I had written, and most importantly of all—what did I write?! Most of the previous months' entries into the festival project were a blank, and the time I had spent considerably enough sifting through whatever masked man acting in part of Fallon, whoever he really was had been turbulent, as if I had been disfigured to be brainwashed into half a mind—then, slowly peeking back the layers of such a chaotic artifact of time and this, Seth Meyers, to whom now I had become a loyal fan, an actual fan—and had noticed something ingenuously crafted here. A genuine and talented, very kind and gifted man, who was not in any sense miserable or in peril. Peril, so to speak, as I remembered the almost villainous approach that the decent into madness had accompanied this Fallon and his mask, and besides this was the assumption that Seth Meyers, though professionally trained as such, seemed happy. Fallon did not. We had all learned to craft masks in order to protect our inner selves—however, with such a veil lifted as the partitioned screen of all does, this spoke to me with numerous volumes and sometimes even screamed, with the ethics of no worse a gentleman than some surgeon soldier or sailor and no more a nobleman than a king or god itself; I had not been Shocked and all but murmured even to just the slightest gawk of just an awkward cry, a muster of some shallow disaster which had called me to all of them— to whom I had loved and yet somehow not known, at least being here—and here I was, slightly convulsed, bearing no armor and gripping at the fortitude of death's barriers; On wheels with no bearings plummeted towards a forged death of sorts, by my own hands but also at the hands of others, the forgery calling from the halls of a place I had known as once my own fortress; but was no more. I belonged and now, almost with gratitude, to the eye of all gods, and all things that moved. No cherished nature, perhaps, was this into my own eye, but of disgust for what I had not yet accomplished, and still might never— I was a skull and crossbones with no love, and nothing known at all besides my own. —Tales of a superstar DJ “16 Songs” I got it. What's that. The thing that sets Seth Meyers apart from the other hosts. What is it? Seth Meyers is not a host—he's an anchor. Goddammit, you're right . I know I'm right. GODDAMIT. It just took me this long to figure it out . Great. Now how long's it gonna get you to take this thing fixed. Possibly forever. Entaer The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2024 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

“Seth Meyers And the Cauldron of Doom” OMG— YOU have a cauldron of doom?! I have a cauldron of doom!!! DO NOT SHAKE THIS SNOWGLOBE. I had been avoiding Rockefeller plaza for months as it was, without the sometimes accidental ending up there anyway, and I thought not once but twice or three times about changing into my regular pants so that the deep pockets could hold my keys and passports sans wallet— or a purse and considered taking a notebook as well; on the list of prohibited items were backpacks and large bags, and though the dress code seemed to be null in void at all, I was happy to be able to wear my hat at least— and almost prepared to be dogged out, the last min it e change into my harem pants would probably be the comfortable choice; looking intentionally dressed down as a statement—a broad statement that I wasn't looking to be noticed at all, or trying to be noticed. The guest for the show was nearly an EGOT winner, probably younger, and definitely skinner and more beautiful than I was; a black woman, but a British woman, and it would be almost entirely impossible to think that besides Whoopi Goldberg, an American black woman would strive to win such a thing as an EGOT herself. Still, I was looking for a cure to the writer's block and crippling depression that I had been in, however—knowing who the president of Peacock was, and after the elections at all's though I knew NBC to be left-leaning— I didn't feel at all as if I would ever belong on the stage, and was quite happily taking my place as simply a fan…and audience member, though ready to creep back into obscurity, and probably more likely than not with a pint of Ben and Jerry's after the show. I had gone to see Drew Barrymore sand makeup, and would do the same, but only as a proclamation that I had read Tina Fey's book nearly religiously now rounding three times, and I almost wish I had an oversized black t-shirt which read “hot water heater” to accompany my lax look and blonde hair—a testament to her correctness standing, as the grossities of tinder loved “the blonde”, almost as if, without the hair I would be ugly, and just as much in the same breath, unworthy of such status anyway. But more than anything, I just wanted to be able to write again, at least for my own sake, and certainly not for anyone else's. I was still in hiatus, for the better, and had not completely recovered from the unbearable racism and parallel of doom the election had tossed me into with trajectory—in this world—supposedly “fascist”. I was comfortable enough in the jeans, but had nowhere to put my phone. I was ready to be dogged out and shown what a real a list celebrity looked like, and why I simply wasn't one. I left the house with a sink full of dishes, an unmade bed, and a pile of laundry unfolded—a pile of books in boxes I had collected for my son but would cost too much to send—almost as a testament to his sick I had been since the election. In this world, I was just another poor black fat single mother— a dead beat living in poverty. In trump's world, I was an ugly, poor nothing. Everywhere I had gone about the past week, the rich seemed richer and the poor poorer, the whites whiter and the blacks blacker, good gone and evil fleeting, with the return of the motorcycles and pieces of me dying, simply giving up. I planned my return to the workforce, and the eventual fortitude of my freedom; the wealthy had become more arrogant, and the rest of us more distraught. What was I going to rocketfeller plaza for, anyway? The news. My apartment was disgusting, but at least I had been to the gym—I had run the full mile and lifted and pulled, all with the gym to myself. My harem pants still felt even better, and for the first time in me months I ventured into the world in only one waist trainer. Be prepared to be [lost in a revolving door Be cool to the two dudes in blue suits goddamnit I never know where I'm going in this bitch. I can never breath in this bitch and I don't know why. How do you get lost at the rock? Like this: [Infinitely Lost at Rockafeller Plaza] This is why I avoid this place like the plague. Maybe I'm the plague. First of all, there's no track on the floor upstairs. (I've never been upstairs.) It's just store after store of ways to spend money. This is my only pair of clean socks. No shit, this is the reason practicing your mantras on the train becomes dangerous. DANGEROUS. Somewhere in the frenzy, I remember this. Frequency, however, Not yet partial to my own inner self, and empty in the array of superstardom, I become nothing, Only a spectator of celebrity— And now, suddenly. 8 remember this day Why? Suddenly, now, in the Is moment. Where I always have been, waiting for myself— I avoid Rockerfeller plaza at all costs. Why. I heard a grimlin lives here. Now is the time for Skrillex! I would really love you forever if you didn't. Que the Arc! Oh boy, this writer's block is a doozy. The only reason I had even bothered was because it was as if I had been summoned, as if something had clocked in my sense memory where, all of a sudden, looking at an unrelated picture of some kid on Tinee, with his hands covering his mouth the way that Stefon always did, made me immidiately stop whatever I was doing—probably eating tacos or pancakes, insurmountably out of bounds— and pausing the comedian I was watching instead, just to watch Stefon, and in the way that I remembered it all, it made me laugh. Although now, I knew exactly what he was talking about by the avant-grade and strangely abysmal club scene not just of the time, but of any time in New York City— and, somehow summoning a laugh even in the darkness that had been my own distraught and depression in the previous weeks, something of a belly roll laugh might have triggered something in the alrgorithm to send last minute tickets to my email in almost that exact moment. Are they going to tell me to take off my hat?! There was no dress code, They had better not tell me to take off my motherfucking hat. I won't do it. Fuck Seth Meyers . I'm not taking off my hat for Seth Meyers. Oh yeah. That's why I'm here. I found it hard to say that I was there for such a thing; I— I turned off my peripheral vision and hyperfocus. I didn't know there would be music. Goddammit. I had deleted Shazam filming for I love New York, an all but abandoned project—the writer's block had been too real, and now the real rest had come—would I laugh at anything in show show when in reality I wanted to cry? The way the lights kept going up and down as if it were intermission only slightly distracted from the fact that I had never seen a page in real life. THEY EXIST . I had never seen an actual NBC PAGE. GODDAMMIT GET THIS BLUE SUIT LOAFER WEARING MOTHERFUCKER OUT OF MY PERIPHERAL BEFORE I LOSE IT. Shoot a midget at her. What. Just do it. Don't do that. What Don't put the midget in the cannon. What! Thays's what he's here for! I'm a stunt double! This is a stunt. That's a horrible joke. That's not a joke. SHAZAM. WTF IS THIS. Some top 40 bullshit. Good, get it ( I'm never going to have any other l exposure to top 40, ever in my life. ) Congratulations, you've made the A list What?! NO FAIR. What. What does that mean. It means I can't do shit and mandatory attendance to everything. What is everything “Everythin—g.” Man, fuck this. Alright At this moment, I realize I must be some sort of autistic. Let's get this over with… I let the sound of my own mix blare in my ears to drown out the sound of whatever pop singer was on over the loud speakers; I didn't realize there would be music, and I hoped the flutter was good l. Maybe it was the lights, or whatever, but— SUNNI BLU what in the fuck dimention is this . It's the same dimension, you're just drunk. Ah. Now what? I was as uncomfortable as ever, there was a track on the higher level, but it didn't matter, the cattle call was contained inside of velvet ropes— black ones, unlike the typical red ones, and it was at this point I realized that not only had I never seen actual NBC pages— Yo, their skirts are kinda short… RIGHT. I THOUGHT THE PAGES WERE THE PARAGON OF SANCTITY! No, those are, um… Nvm. Maybe the ugly shoes distract from the shortness of their skirts on the general basis. Oh come on, nobody gives a fuck how ugly your shoes are if your skirt is that short! These are facts, Liz. No, I'm serious what dimention is this. I already told you. I had to ask for directions three times just get here. THIS IS MY LEVEL. why is your level on acid. Cause. This is—just— Where I'm at. CUT TO: Jimmy Fallon after Mardi Gras's. Come on that's not fair! {Enter The Multiverse} What exactly isn't fair?! He's in all the scenes. Well, how else are you going to explain a time traveling helicopter?! Got him. THERES MY INVISIBLE MOTORCYCLE. I'm not going to pa— Goddamn it. I'm not going to p— It actually hurt not to write and just stand there; but I still didn't feel like myself—or sound like myself—or look like myself; I was playing a character, I just didnt know who. As I moved forward in line, the music began to fade away behind me and into the nothingness that was whatever was behind, in front of, and all around me. I hated cattle calls, but after all, I was still just a fan and as the world began to fold into chaos, I realized that my pants were falling off of me, though I had been feeling fat, and walking, and running, and cycling, and protein shaking—the only thing that had gained any extra weight was my ass, which was exactly what I was intending on hiding with my same old usual harems. My blonde hair made it so that I stuck out like a sore thumb, but that didn't matter, I was a walking statement piece and almost in a fit of tears just thinking about my own status; the NBC pages probably all had crazy incredible accolades and numerous degrees and achievements—what was I, if anything at all— ? I had put the candles out, but had I left the stove on? Did I really unplug the nail dryer and leave the stove on? I had almost washed all of the dishes, but stopped just short of right on time to leave; my producer brain was on fire and wanted more pancakes, but however hard I tried I could not find where I had placed my EBT card; probably for the better—celebrities didn't carry EBT cards, and even my awkward general being thrown off by the doorman or security— —whichever I wasn't sure— standing outside of the roller rink— probably ice this time of year, by the looks of the Zamboni in the foreground of it… ‘Don't stop writing, no matter what. ‘ Dammit, dammit dammit— That seems inappropriate. I told you to get this motherfucker out of my peripheral before something— Nevermind, don't write that. [redacted] (But imma remember this shit cause it's heavy.) A remarkable and accidental tableau, My feet flat to the floor, as my ankles bare, This is my only pair of hole-less socks. I feel so much better with my back against the wall and Listening to mau5 and, Not giving a fuck about the music playing Or the people watching But keeping it for later Forgetting how to codeswitch, Just an ever so limited existence Trying not to stick out like a sore thumb in the wrong world It's a long way up, But even longer way down, And in all the demoralizing humiliation and emasculation, I realize I'm no man at all, No man at all I realize I'm no man at all, No man at all, No mana I realized my son's Lego Lamborghini should be waiting for me as I returned to my apartment in Brooklyn probably starting but pretending not to care; I winced at everything— this was a dangerous disaster, to even be in the building at all and edging closer to death were the secrets I kept that were not only secrets, but non existences. Nothing in nothing and nothing— Oh shit, is the suffering done? This is the end of the End of the end It's the Beginning of the end It's the end of the beginning This will be the end Of the end Of the end, This will be the end of the end Of the end Of the end Of the beginning Of the end Of the beginning of the end. This will be the end Of the end Of the end Of the beginning of the beginning Of the end of the end Of the beginning Of the end This will be the end Of the beginning Of the beginning Of the beginning Of the end Of the end Of the end This will be the end Of the beginning of the beginning This will be the beginning of the beginning of the beginning This will be the beginning, The beginning of the end This will be the end of the end of the end This will be the end of the end of the end This will be the end (This will be the end) Of the beginning This will be the beginning The beginning of the beginning Of the end My friends. LET US COMMECE! All of it, this is recorded history, Smoke and mirrors, here portions and pardons This is probably why can't breathe at the rock Was I here last time; I choked last time I wrote nothing remarkable at all (Nothing remarkable at all.) I love getting lost at the rock Okay, this is the host— This is the host of the show (I think I lost my lunch before.) I was at a show, I never woke up, Okay; This is the host This is the host (This is the host) This is the host. Cue the Nirvana; Curtains go up, I don't want to see the show, I just want to host it. I don't want to get lost no more On the way to the rock Or the store Cause only one train goes there I wanna climb the straits to the top Get lost at the rock, Guess this isn't he host huh This is the lost god, That was a long walk The top of the rock off is a long jump And I'm still in talks how's every morning Someone told me not to ignore you So, this is the host, huh. Someone told me, go hard or go home (Almost time tknkove) Parenthesises, please and—Parenthetical, hypotheticals and paleontology's, Please, I need a mixologist (And anthologist) Please slow down to peace, Mr poltergeist, Please Mr poltergeist The ghost of Mr giest I'm doing a hiest Please, slow down mister poltergeist, Please for the peace Mr. Poltergeist, Or what have you? How old are you, 40. I'm the whole medium and still, Nice to meat you sir. A house made of mediums I hope that shock, And I hop to the rock there's still something in it A pogo stick Or a poltergeist Slow down, poltergeist. Terrible timing, Victoria Beckham and monsuier, Please Mr, I mean it no more— If I'm Mr ooltergieat (A policeman and polgergeist) Please, sir, no jokes. All sandwhich, no buns and pastrmi, And all the God, I'm going cold, I'm going ghost again And a the god, on all the rocks, I'm going old, I'm going cold again; On all the God on all the rocks, I'm going God, I'm going old again Hold on again, mi got a song again? I'm just a serviceman WATCH OUT FOR THE DOORMAN. MORE FUEL. So all the Rockerfeller plazas on all the earths aim alll yhr parallel dimensions can actually communicate with each other RADIO CITY BABBBBBBBYYYYYYY! OH GOD. WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE Did you get his dog's name!? I think so. Good. [meniacal rubbing of hands] good. Cue the nirvana. Cue the m— Mitosis. The migos. Nah, I can't catch the flow. There it is. [the flow is a literal] Something medicinal in this meniacal, is this I spy a specscle, monocle— monopoly, Time to go, it's the devil at my left; Time for the fight against darkness, And it all is, Cause this is the ark, Noah This is the arc, God. This is apartheid and apart from that. You're fired. What. You heard me. But—I'm Seth Meyers. That's debatable. I am! I'm Seth Meyers. If you say so. This is nonsense. It's not nonsense. It is nonsense. And it's also impossible; cause this is my show. It's my show, I'M SETH MEYERS. Debatable, Not debatable. I'm ME. THAT'S ME. Debatable. I can't even hear the words, But the bass is so fire, I summon Shazam! …I want a ham sandwhich. Oh good! He's alive. Ham. Sandwhich. What the fuck happened buddy?! Where were you man?! —Zoolander. What. disleylandhamsandwhich. Get him a sandwhich!!!!! YO QUIERO CUBANO. Here's your sandwhich. CUBANO. Remember what you look like Who you are What your place is What you weigh, And Check your status Remember how still started What your mark is And what happened to your wallet; Did you leave the stove on Do you put the show on; Did you miss your mark Your mom was hotter Please remember the circumstances In which you—- [BLACKOUT] After several days gone completely missing, Jimmy Fallon is found under the craft services table sleeping peacefully. The apparatus I entered in with Is not adjusted to this condition The biometrics are non concurrent; {enter the multiverse} I felt tragic. By the time I got back to my apartment, my ribcage was showing again—although I had only been wearing one waist trainer, it was the skimpy one, and it was already wearing, it was after all eight dollars. Really and once and for all, something had come over me at Rockerfeller plaza that I didn't understand. I was more awkward and nervous than usual, and sure that I should have eaten, but couldn't —even after a long gym session, there was no time for food before the show, and I had no stomach for it. I chose to as much as I could ignore the code switching, and the more I picked it up, the further my mind began to drift. —a door slammed. My documents were probably compromised, and my phone hacked which I might have guessed, but continuing the thought I had often wondered how or why anything could have possibly known what I had written, or how—or how anyone would know what I had written, or of the things I had written, and most importantly of all—what did I write?! Most of the previous months' entries into the festival project were a blank, and the time I had spent considerably enough sifting through whatever masked man acting in part of Fallon, whoever he really was had been turbulent, as if I had been disfigured to be brainwashed into half a mind—then, slowly peeking back the layers of such a chaotic artifact of time and this, Seth Meyers, to whom now I had become a loyal fan, an actual fan—and had noticed something ingenuously crafted here. A genuine and talented, very kind and gifted man, who was not in any sense miserable or in peril. Peril, so to speak, as I remembered the almost villainous approach that the decent into madness had accompanied this Fallon and his mask, and besides this was the assumption that Seth Meyers, though professionally trained as such, seemed happy. Fallon did not. We had all learned to craft masks in order to protect our inner selves—however, with such a veil lifted as the partitioned screen of all does, this spoke to me with numerous volumes and sometimes even screamed, with the ethics of no worse a gentleman than some surgeon soldier or sailor and no more a nobleman than a king or god itself; I had not been Shocked and all but murmured even to just the slightest gawk of just an awkward cry, a muster of some shallow disaster which had called me to all of them— to whom I had loved and yet somehow not known, at least being here—and here I was, slightly convulsed, bearing no armor and gripping at the fortitude of death's barriers; On wheels with no bearings plummeted towards a forged death of sorts, by my own hands but also at the hands of others, the forgery calling from the halls of a place I had known as once my own fortress; but was no more. I belonged and now, almost with gratitude, to the eye of all gods, and all things that moved. No cherished nature, perhaps, was this into my own eye, but of disgust for what I had not yet accomplished, and still might never— I was a skull and crossbones with no love, and nothing known at all besides my own. —Tales of a superstar DJ “16 Songs” I got it. What's that. The thing that sets Seth Meyers apart from the other hosts. What is it? Seth Meyers is not a host—he's an anchor. Goddammit, you're right . I know I'm right. GODDAMIT. It just took me this long to figure it out . Great. Now how long's it gonna get you to take this thing fixed. Possibly forever. {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2024 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

“Seth Meyers And the Cauldron of Doom” OMG— YOU have a cauldron of doom?! I have a cauldron of doom!!! DO NOT SHAKE THIS SNOWGLOBE. I had been avoiding Rockefeller plaza for months as it was, without the sometimes accidental ending up there anyway, and I thought not once but twice or three times about changing into my regular pants so that the deep pockets could hold my keys and passports sans wallet— or a purse and considered taking a notebook as well; on the list of prohibited items were backpacks and large bags, and though the dress code seemed to be null in void at all, I was happy to be able to wear my hat at least— and almost prepared to be dogged out, the last min it e change into my harem pants would probably be the comfortable choice; looking intentionally dressed down as a statement—a broad statement that I wasn't looking to be noticed at all, or trying to be noticed. The guest for the show was nearly an EGOT winner, probably younger, and definitely skinner and more beautiful than I was; a black woman, but a British woman, and it would be almost entirely impossible to think that besides Whoopi Goldberg, an American black woman would strive to win such a thing as an EGOT herself. Still, I was looking for a cure to the writer's block and crippling depression that I had been in, however—knowing who the president of Peacock was, and after the elections at all's though I knew NBC to be left-leaning— I didn't feel at all as if I would ever belong on the stage, and was quite happily taking my place as simply a fan…and audience member, though ready to creep back into obscurity, and probably more likely than not with a pint of Ben and Jerry's after the show. I had gone to see Drew Barrymore sand makeup, and would do the same, but only as a proclamation that I had read Tina Fey's book nearly religiously now rounding three times, and I almost wish I had an oversized black t-shirt which read “hot water heater” to accompany my lax look and blonde hair—a testament to her correctness standing, as the grossities of tinder loved “the blonde”, almost as if, without the hair I would be ugly, and just as much in the same breath, unworthy of such status anyway. But more than anything, I just wanted to be able to write again, at least for my own sake, and certainly not for anyone else's. I was still in hiatus, for the better, and had not completely recovered from the unbearable racism and parallel of doom the election had tossed me into with trajectory—in this world—supposedly “fascist”. I was comfortable enough in the jeans, but had nowhere to put my phone. I was ready to be dogged out and shown what a real a list celebrity looked like, and why I simply wasn't one. I left the house with a sink full of dishes, an unmade bed, and a pile of laundry unfolded—a pile of books in boxes I had collected for my son but would cost too much to send—almost as a testament to his sick I had been since the election. In this world, I was just another poor black fat single mother— a dead beat living in poverty. In trump's world, I was an ugly, poor nothing. Everywhere I had gone about the past week, the rich seemed richer and the poor poorer, the whites whiter and the blacks blacker, good gone and evil fleeting, with the return of the motorcycles and pieces of me dying, simply giving up. I planned my return to the workforce, and the eventual fortitude of my freedom; the wealthy had become more arrogant, and the rest of us more distraught. What was I going to rocketfeller plaza for, anyway? The news. My apartment was disgusting, but at least I had been to the gym—I had run the full mile and lifted and pulled, all with the gym to myself. My harem pants still felt even better, and for the first time in me months I ventured into the world in only one waist trainer. Be prepared to be [lost in a revolving door Be cool to the two dudes in blue suits goddamnit I never know where I'm going in this bitch. I can never breath in this bitch and I don't know why. How do you get lost at the rock? Like this: [Infinitely Lost at Rockafeller Plaza] This is why I avoid this place like the plague. Maybe I'm the plague. First of all, there's no track on the floor upstairs. (I've never been upstairs.) It's just store after store of ways to spend money. This is my only pair of clean socks. No shit, this is the reason practicing your mantras on the train becomes dangerous. DANGEROUS. Somewhere in the frenzy, I remember this. Frequency, however, Not yet partial to my own inner self, and empty in the array of superstardom, I become nothing, Only a spectator of celebrity— And now, suddenly. 8 remember this day Why? Suddenly, now, in the Is moment. Where I always have been, waiting for myself— I avoid Rockerfeller plaza at all costs. Why. I heard a grimlin lives here. Now is the time for Skrillex! I would really love you forever if you didn't. Que the Arc! Oh boy, this writer's block is a doozy. The only reason I had even bothered was because it was as if I had been summoned, as if something had clocked in my sense memory where, all of a sudden, looking at an unrelated picture of some kid on Tinee, with his hands covering his mouth the way that Stefon always did, made me immidiately stop whatever I was doing—probably eating tacos or pancakes, insurmountably out of bounds— and pausing the comedian I was watching instead, just to watch Stefon, and in the way that I remembered it all, it made me laugh. Although now, I knew exactly what he was talking about by the avant-grade and strangely abysmal club scene not just of the time, but of any time in New York City— and, somehow summoning a laugh even in the darkness that had been my own distraught and depression in the previous weeks, something of a belly roll laugh might have triggered something in the alrgorithm to send last minute tickets to my email in almost that exact moment. Are they going to tell me to take off my hat?! There was no dress code, They had better not tell me to take off my motherfucking hat. I won't do it. Fuck Seth Meyers . I'm not taking off my hat for Seth Meyers. Oh yeah. That's why I'm here. I found it hard to say that I was there for such a thing; I— I turned off my peripheral vision and hyperfocus. I didn't know there would be music. Goddammit. I had deleted Shazam filming for I love New York, an all but abandoned project—the writer's block had been too real, and now the real rest had come—would I laugh at anything in show show when in reality I wanted to cry? The way the lights kept going up and down as if it were intermission only slightly distracted from the fact that I had never seen a page in real life. THEY EXIST . I had never seen an actual NBC PAGE. GODDAMMIT GET THIS BLUE SUIT LOAFER WEARING MOTHERFUCKER OUT OF MY PERIPHERAL BEFORE I LOSE IT. Shoot a midget at her. What. Just do it. Don't do that. What Don't put the midget in the cannon. What! Thays's what he's here for! I'm a stunt double! This is a stunt. That's a horrible joke. That's not a joke. SHAZAM. WTF IS THIS. Some top 40 bullshit. Good, get it ( I'm never going to have any other l exposure to top 40, ever in my life. ) Congratulations, you've made the A list What?! NO FAIR. What. What does that mean. It means I can't do shit and mandatory attendance to everything. What is everything “Everythin—g.” Man, fuck this. Alright At this moment, I realize I must be some sort of autistic. Let's get this over with… I let the sound of my own mix blare in my ears to drown out the sound of whatever pop singer was on over the loud speakers; I didn't realize there would be music, and I hoped the flutter was good l. Maybe it was the lights, or whatever, but— SUNNI BLU what in the fuck dimention is this . It's the same dimension, you're just drunk. Ah. Now what? I was as uncomfortable as ever, there was a track on the higher level, but it didn't matter, the cattle call was contained inside of velvet ropes— black ones, unlike the typical red ones, and it was at this point I realized that not only had I never seen actual NBC pages— Yo, their skirts are kinda short… RIGHT. I THOUGHT THE PAGES WERE THE PARAGON OF SANCTITY! No, those are, um… Nvm. Maybe the ugly shoes distract from the shortness of their skirts on the general basis. Oh come on, nobody gives a fuck how ugly your shoes are if your skirt is that short! These are facts, Liz. No, I'm serious what dimention is this. I already told you. I had to ask for directions three times just get here. THIS IS MY LEVEL. why is your level on acid. Cause. This is—just— Where I'm at. CUT TO: Jimmy Fallon after Mardi Gras's. Come on that's not fair! {Enter The Multiverse} What exactly isn't fair?! He's in all the scenes. Well, how else are you going to explain a time traveling helicopter?! Got him. THERES MY INVISIBLE MOTORCYCLE. I'm not going to pa— Goddamn it. I'm not going to p— It actually hurt not to write and just stand there; but I still didn't feel like myself—or sound like myself—or look like myself; I was playing a character, I just didnt know who. As I moved forward in line, the music began to fade away behind me and into the nothingness that was whatever was behind, in front of, and all around me. I hated cattle calls, but after all, I was still just a fan and as the world began to fold into chaos, I realized that my pants were falling off of me, though I had been feeling fat, and walking, and running, and cycling, and protein shaking—the only thing that had gained any extra weight was my ass, which was exactly what I was intending on hiding with my same old usual harems. My blonde hair made it so that I stuck out like a sore thumb, but that didn't matter, I was a walking statement piece and almost in a fit of tears just thinking about my own status; the NBC pages probably all had crazy incredible accolades and numerous degrees and achievements—what was I, if anything at all— ? I had put the candles out, but had I left the stove on? Did I really unplug the nail dryer and leave the stove on? I had almost washed all of the dishes, but stopped just short of right on time to leave; my producer brain was on fire and wanted more pancakes, but however hard I tried I could not find where I had placed my EBT card; probably for the better—celebrities didn't carry EBT cards, and even my awkward general being thrown off by the doorman or security— —whichever I wasn't sure— standing outside of the roller rink— probably ice this time of year, by the looks of the Zamboni in the foreground of it… ‘Don't stop writing, no matter what. ‘ Dammit, dammit dammit— That seems inappropriate. I told you to get this motherfucker out of my peripheral before something— Nevermind, don't write that. [redacted] (But imma remember this shit cause it's heavy.) A remarkable and accidental tableau, My feet flat to the floor, as my ankles bare, This is my only pair of hole-less socks. I feel so much better with my back against the wall and Listening to mau5 and, Not giving a fuck about the music playing Or the people watching But keeping it for later Forgetting how to codeswitch, Just an ever so limited existence Trying not to stick out like a sore thumb in the wrong world It's a long way up, But even longer way down, And in all the demoralizing humiliation and emasculation, I realize I'm no man at all, No man at all I realize I'm no man at all, No man at all, No mana I realized my son's Lego Lamborghini should be waiting for me as I returned to my apartment in Brooklyn probably starting but pretending not to care; I winced at everything— this was a dangerous disaster, to even be in the building at all and edging closer to death were the secrets I kept that were not only secrets, but non existences. Nothing in nothing and nothing— Oh shit, is the suffering done? This is the end of the End of the end It's the Beginning of the end It's the end of the beginning This will be the end Of the end Of the end, This will be the end of the end Of the end Of the end Of the beginning Of the end Of the beginning of the end. This will be the end Of the end Of the end Of the beginning of the beginning Of the end of the end Of the beginning Of the end This will be the end Of the beginning Of the beginning Of the beginning Of the end Of the end Of the end This will be the end Of the beginning of the beginning This will be the beginning of the beginning of the beginning This will be the beginning, The beginning of the end This will be the end of the end of the end This will be the end of the end of the end This will be the end (This will be the end) Of the beginning This will be the beginning The beginning of the beginning Of the end My friends. LET US COMMECE! All of it, this is recorded history, Smoke and mirrors, here portions and pardons This is probably why can't breathe at the rock Was I here last time; I choked last time I wrote nothing remarkable at all (Nothing remarkable at all.) I love getting lost at the rock Okay, this is the host— This is the host of the show (I think I lost my lunch before.) I was at a show, I never woke up, Okay; This is the host This is the host (This is the host) This is the host. Cue the Nirvana; Curtains go up, I don't want to see the show, I just want to host it. I don't want to get lost no more On the way to the rock Or the store Cause only one train goes there I wanna climb the straits to the top Get lost at the rock, Guess this isn't he host huh This is the lost god, That was a long walk The top of the rock off is a long jump And I'm still in talks how's every morning Someone told me not to ignore you So, this is the host, huh. Someone told me, go hard or go home (Almost time tknkove) Parenthesises, please and—Parenthetical, hypotheticals and paleontology's, Please, I need a mixologist (And anthologist) Please slow down to peace, Mr poltergeist, Please Mr poltergeist The ghost of Mr giest I'm doing a hiest Please, slow down mister poltergeist, Please for the peace Mr. Poltergeist, Or what have you? How old are you, 40. I'm the whole medium and still, Nice to meat you sir. A house made of mediums I hope that shock, And I hop to the rock there's still something in it A pogo stick Or a poltergeist Slow down, poltergeist. Terrible timing, Victoria Beckham and monsuier, Please Mr, I mean it no more— If I'm Mr ooltergieat (A policeman and polgergeist) Please, sir, no jokes. All sandwhich, no buns and pastrmi, And all the God, I'm going cold, I'm going ghost again And a the god, on all the rocks, I'm going old, I'm going cold again; On all the God on all the rocks, I'm going God, I'm going old again Hold on again, mi got a song again? I'm just a serviceman WATCH OUT FOR THE DOORMAN. MORE FUEL. So all the Rockerfeller plazas on all the earths aim alll yhr parallel dimensions can actually communicate with each other RADIO CITY BABBBBBBBYYYYYYY! OH GOD. WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE Did you get his dog's name!? I think so. Good. [meniacal rubbing of hands] good. Cue the nirvana. Cue the m— Mitosis. The migos. Nah, I can't catch the flow. There it is. [the flow is a literal] Something medicinal in this meniacal, is this I spy a specscle, monocle— monopoly, Time to go, it's the devil at my left; Time for the fight against darkness, And it all is, Cause this is the ark, Noah This is the arc, God. This is apartheid and apart from that. You're fired. What. You heard me. But—I'm Seth Meyers. That's debatable. I am! I'm Seth Meyers. If you say so. This is nonsense. It's not nonsense. It is nonsense. And it's also impossible; cause this is my show. It's my show, I'M SETH MEYERS. Debatable, Not debatable. I'm ME. THAT'S ME. Debatable. I can't even hear the words, But the bass is so fire, I summon Shazam! …I want a ham sandwhich. Oh good! He's alive. Ham. Sandwhich. What the fuck happened buddy?! Where were you man?! —Zoolander. What. disleylandhamsandwhich. Get him a sandwhich!!!!! YO QUIERO CUBANO. Here's your sandwhich. CUBANO. Remember what you look like Who you are What your place is What you weigh, And Check your status Remember how still started What your mark is And what happened to your wallet; Did you leave the stove on Do you put the show on; Did you miss your mark Your mom was hotter Please remember the circumstances In which you—- [BLACKOUT] After several days gone completely missing, Jimmy Fallon is found under the craft services table sleeping peacefully. The apparatus I entered in with Is not adjusted to this condition The biometrics are non concurrent; {enter the multiverse} I felt tragic. By the time I got back to my apartment, my ribcage was showing again—although I had only been wearing one waist trainer, it was the skimpy one, and it was already wearing, it was after all eight dollars. Really and once and for all, something had come over me at Rockerfeller plaza that I didn't understand. I was more awkward and nervous than usual, and sure that I should have eaten, but couldn't —even after a long gym session, there was no time for food before the show, and I had no stomach for it. I chose to as much as I could ignore the code switching, and the more I picked it up, the further my mind began to drift. —a door slammed. My documents were probably compromised, and my phone hacked which I might have guessed, but continuing the thought I had often wondered how or why anything could have possibly known what I had written, or how—or how anyone would know what I had written, or of the things I had written, and most importantly of all—what did I write?! Most of the previous months' entries into the festival project were a blank, and the time I had spent considerably enough sifting through whatever masked man acting in part of Fallon, whoever he really was had been turbulent, as if I had been disfigured to be brainwashed into half a mind—then, slowly peeking back the layers of such a chaotic artifact of time and this, Seth Meyers, to whom now I had become a loyal fan, an actual fan—and had noticed something ingenuously crafted here. A genuine and talented, very kind and gifted man, who was not in any sense miserable or in peril. Peril, so to speak, as I remembered the almost villainous approach that the decent into madness had accompanied this Fallon and his mask, and besides this was the assumption that Seth Meyers, though professionally trained as such, seemed happy. Fallon did not. We had all learned to craft masks in order to protect our inner selves—however, with such a veil lifted as the partitioned screen of all does, this spoke to me with numerous volumes and sometimes even screamed, with the ethics of no worse a gentleman than some surgeon soldier or sailor and no more a nobleman than a king or god itself; I had not been Shocked and all but murmured even to just the slightest gawk of just an awkward cry, a muster of some shallow disaster which had called me to all of them— to whom I had loved and yet somehow not known, at least being here—and here I was, slightly convulsed, bearing no armor and gripping at the fortitude of death's barriers; On wheels with no bearings plummeted towards a forged death of sorts, by my own hands but also at the hands of others, the forgery calling from the halls of a place I had known as once my own fortress; but was no more. I belonged and now, almost with gratitude, to the eye of all gods, and all things that moved. No cherished nature, perhaps, was this into my own eye, but of disgust for what I had not yet accomplished, and still might never— I was a skull and crossbones with no love, and nothing known at all besides my own. —Tales of a superstar DJ “16 Songs” I got it. What's that. The thing that sets Seth Meyers apart from the other hosts. What is it? Seth Meyers is not a host—he's an anchor. Goddammit, you're right . I know I'm right. GODDAMIT. It just took me this long to figure it out . Great. Now how long's it gonna get you to take this thing fixed. Possibly forever. Entaer The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2024 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ©

En este episodio de ExpresArte, Yari y Victor conversan con la talentosa artista Ivonne Thays, quien nos comparte sus inicios en el mundo del arte y las experiencias que la han inspirado a lo largo de su carrera. Thays profundiza en su proceso creativo y ofrece valiosos consejos para aquellos que aspiran a seguir sus pasos en el arte. Acompañanos para descubrir las reflexiones y anécdotas de una artista apasionada. ¿QUÉ ESPERAS? DALE PLAY

É com muito orgulho que chegamos ao centésimo episódio do Programa Quinta, essa trilha de conhecimento que tem o propósito de discutir temas relevantes e trazer insights para profissionais e empresários do nosso setor. E para celebrar esse momento, nada mais apropriado do que mergulhar em um tema importante e que precisa estar na pauta principal das empresas: a sustentabilidade. Neste episódio especial, reunimos um time de peso para uma conversa inspiradora sobre o futuro do nosso setor. Thays Rosini, gerente de sustentabilidade da Lojas Renner, trará sua expertise sobre o tema para desvendar as estratégias e iniciativas da maior empresa de varejo de moda do país. A editora-chefe da Revista Costura Perfeita, Silvia Boriello, irá nos brindar com sua visão crítica e abrangente sobre o universo da moda sustentável. E para completar o nosso trio espetacular, José Guilherme Teixeira, fundador e gestor da Cotton Move e da Plataforma Circular Cotton Move. Preparem-se para um episódio rico em insights, reflexões e um mergulho profundo no futuro da moda!

La obra de Katya Adaui ha ido creciendo en intensidad y calidad, así como lectores, y en la actualidad es referente de la literatura latinoamericana contemporánea. En esta entrevista, conversamos sobre su nueva novela Quienes somos ahora, un libro episódico donde recupera escenas de su vida y sus retos: padre, madre, hermana, familia, el país que dejó y el que llega, y en especial su mascota Mara y el duelo sin dolor por su muerte. El lenguaje vuelve a ser protagonista de sus libros, cada vez más penetrante, con frases breves que a veces se convierten en verso, ampliando su significado hasta volverse simbólico. Es un libro sobre el pasado, sobre la violencia pasivo agresiva, sobre la indignación de ser mujer y crecer en un mundo donde los que deben cuidarte no te cuidan, pero sobre todo es un libro sobre el sobrevivir y aprender. Katya Adaui nació en Lima, en 1977. Estudió en Argentina la maestría en Escritura Creativa de la Universidad de Tres de Febrero. En 2018 fue invitada a la residencia de escritura creativa de la Academia Lu Xun de China. Ha dictado talleres de escritura creativa en Buenos Aires, La Paz y Lima. Es autora de varios libros, entre ellos las colecciones de cuentos Geografía de la oscuridad (Páginas de Espuma, 2021), Aquí hay icebergs (Penguin Random House, 2017, traducido al inglés por Charco Press) y Algo se nos ha escapado (Criatura Editora, 2013) . También ha escrito las novelas: Quiénes somos ahora (Random House, Mapa de las Lenguas 2023) y Nunca sabré lo que entiendo (Planeta, 2014); también los libros infantiles: Pedro Paulet, el lector-inventor de la Biblioteca Nacional del Perú, Todo puede ser otra cosa (Mónimo), Patichueca (Beascoa) y Muy Muy en Bora Bora (Beascoa). Actualmente radica en Buenos Aires. Presenta Iván Thays. Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

La obra de Katya Adaui ha ido creciendo en intensidad y calidad, así como lectores, y en la actualidad es referente de la literatura latinoamericana contemporánea. En esta entrevista, conversamos sobre su nueva novela Quienes somos ahora, un libro episódico donde recupera escenas de su vida y sus retos: padre, madre, hermana, familia, el país que dejó y el que llega, y en especial su mascota Mara y el duelo sin dolor por su muerte. El lenguaje vuelve a ser protagonista de sus libros, cada vez más penetrante, con frases breves que a veces se convierten en verso, ampliando su significado hasta volverse simbólico. Es un libro sobre el pasado, sobre la violencia pasivo agresiva, sobre la indignación de ser mujer y crecer en un mundo donde los que deben cuidarte no te cuidan, pero sobre todo es un libro sobre el sobrevivir y aprender. Katya Adaui nació en Lima, en 1977. Estudió en Argentina la maestría en Escritura Creativa de la Universidad de Tres de Febrero. En 2018 fue invitada a la residencia de escritura creativa de la Academia Lu Xun de China. Ha dictado talleres de escritura creativa en Buenos Aires, La Paz y Lima. Es autora de varios libros, entre ellos las colecciones de cuentos Geografía de la oscuridad (Páginas de Espuma, 2021), Aquí hay icebergs (Penguin Random House, 2017, traducido al inglés por Charco Press) y Algo se nos ha escapado (Criatura Editora, 2013) . También ha escrito las novelas: Quiénes somos ahora (Random House, Mapa de las Lenguas 2023) y Nunca sabré lo que entiendo (Planeta, 2014); también los libros infantiles: Pedro Paulet, el lector-inventor de la Biblioteca Nacional del Perú, Todo puede ser otra cosa (Mónimo), Patichueca (Beascoa) y Muy Muy en Bora Bora (Beascoa). Actualmente radica en Buenos Aires. Presenta Iván Thays. Learn more about your ad choices. Visit podcastchoices.com/adchoices

João Luiz Pedrosa e Xan Ravelli recebem a influenciadora digital e criadora de conteúdo de humor Thays Pires para um papo sobre propósitos pessoais, mudanças na vida adulta e universo da internet.

O Movimento Igreja acontece todas as quintas, às 20h em nosso canal do Youtube. Faça parte desse movimento de Deus em nossa comunidade. youtube.com/segundaigrejaonline #segundaigrejaonline #movimentoigreja

Este capítulo está dedicado a Los abismos, novela de Pilar Quintana ganadora del premio Alfaguara el año 2021. La obra nos conduce hacia la vida familiar de Claudia, una niña de ocho años, en Colombia. Lo que al principio podría ser un retrato doméstico de la Cali cincuenta años atrás pronto muestra su verdadera historia cuando su madre, también llamada Claudia, cambia el relato ficticio de esposa abnegada y madre protectora, y toma decisiones pensando en su propia felicidad, sin asumir roles, y al hacerlo destruye la falsa armonía del hogar y visibiliza los abismos invisibles que habitan en el interior de las casas de los barrios de apariencia más inofensivos. La pequeña Claudia es una aguda observadora de la vida de sus padres y por ello no puede evitar descubrir esos agujeros profundos y sin fondo detrás de lo que parece una simple fisura en la foto familiar, abandonando con ello el territorio protegido de la infancia hacia ese abismo insalvable que es crecer. Presenta Iván Thays. Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Este capítulo está dedicado a Los abismos, novela de Pilar Quintana ganadora del premio Alfaguara el año 2021. La obra nos conduce hacia la vida familiar de Claudia, una niña de ocho años, en Colombia. Lo que al principio podría ser un retrato doméstico de la Cali cincuenta años atrás pronto muestra su verdadera historia cuando su madre, también llamada Claudia, cambia el relato ficticio de esposa abnegada y madre protectora, y toma decisiones pensando en su propia felicidad, sin asumir roles, y al hacerlo destruye la falsa armonía del hogar y visibiliza los abismos invisibles que habitan en el interior de las casas de los barrios de apariencia más inofensivos. La pequeña Claudia es una aguda observadora de la vida de sus padres y por ello no puede evitar descubrir esos agujeros profundos y sin fondo detrás de lo que parece una simple fisura en la foto familiar, abandonando con ello el territorio protegido de la infancia hacia ese abismo insalvable que es crecer. Presenta Iván Thays. Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

En este capítulo doy la bienvenida a Luis Hernán Castañeda, uno de los autores más prominentes de la literatura peruana del nuevo milenio. La última de sus entregas es, quizá, la más audaz: Un escritor rural es un libro híbrido donde se mezcla el diario personal, el ensayo, las prosas reflexivas y una novela breve. Bajo la tesis de que existe una cualidad en ciertos escritores y obras, que califica como “rural”, traza una línea de indagación sobre la “ruralidad” en autores como José María Arguedas, César Moro, Vargas Llosa o Mario Bellatin, además de identificar esa cualidad en su propia vida. ¿En qué consiste ser un escritor rural? Probablemente, en escribir desde un lugar lejos del centro, hundiéndose cada vez más en un paisaje de periferia lejos de las grandes urbes y con temas que tienen que ver más con el mundo interior. Sus lecturas, el cine que ve, los libros que escribe, su propia existencia, entre Lima y Vermont, son un testimonio ineludible de que ser un escritor rural, más que una decisión, es un designio. Luis Hernán Castañeda Nació en Lima (Perú) en 1982. Inició su carrera literaria en 2004 con la novela Casa de Islandia. Es autor de los libros de ficción Hotel Europa (2005), Fotografías de sala (2007), El chamán y la sacerdotisa (2007), El futuro de mi cuerpo (2010, 2020), La noche americana (2011), Viaje al norte del verano (2012), La fiesta del humo (2016), Mi madre soñaba en francés (2018), El imperio de las mareas (2019) y Un escritor rural (2021). Cuentos suyos han sido traducidos al inglés y al francés, y han sido recogidos en antologías diversas. Como investigador ha publicado el estudio Comunidades efímeras: Grupos de vanguardia y neovanguardia en la novela hispanoamericana del siglo XX (2015). Estudió Lingüística y Literatura en la Pontificia Universidad Católica del Perú, y realizó un doctorado en Literatura Latinoamericana en la Universidad de Colorado, en Boulder. Es profesor asociado de español en Middlebury College. Vive en Vermont. Presenta Iván Thays. Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

En este capítulo doy la bienvenida a Luis Hernán Castañeda, uno de los autores más prominentes de la literatura peruana del nuevo milenio. La última de sus entregas es, quizá, la más audaz: Un escritor rural es un libro híbrido donde se mezcla el diario personal, el ensayo, las prosas reflexivas y una novela breve. Bajo la tesis de que existe una cualidad en ciertos escritores y obras, que califica como “rural”, traza una línea de indagación sobre la “ruralidad” en autores como José María Arguedas, César Moro, Vargas Llosa o Mario Bellatin, además de identificar esa cualidad en su propia vida. ¿En qué consiste ser un escritor rural? Probablemente, en escribir desde un lugar lejos del centro, hundiéndose cada vez más en un paisaje de periferia lejos de las grandes urbes y con temas que tienen que ver más con el mundo interior. Sus lecturas, el cine que ve, los libros que escribe, su propia existencia, entre Lima y Vermont, son un testimonio ineludible de que ser un escritor rural, más que una decisión, es un designio. Luis Hernán Castañeda Nació en Lima (Perú) en 1982. Inició su carrera literaria en 2004 con la novela Casa de Islandia. Es autor de los libros de ficción Hotel Europa (2005), Fotografías de sala (2007), El chamán y la sacerdotisa (2007), El futuro de mi cuerpo (2010, 2020), La noche americana (2011), Viaje al norte del verano (2012), La fiesta del humo (2016), Mi madre soñaba en francés (2018), El imperio de las mareas (2019) y Un escritor rural (2021). Cuentos suyos han sido traducidos al inglés y al francés, y han sido recogidos en antologías diversas. Como investigador ha publicado el estudio Comunidades efímeras: Grupos de vanguardia y neovanguardia en la novela hispanoamericana del siglo XX (2015). Estudió Lingüística y Literatura en la Pontificia Universidad Católica del Perú, y realizó un doctorado en Literatura Latinoamericana en la Universidad de Colorado, en Boulder. Es profesor asociado de español en Middlebury College. Vive en Vermont. Presenta Iván Thays. Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Esta conversación con Mayra Santos Febres es sobre el mecanismo de escritura de una de las obras fundamentales del Puerto Rico contemporáneo: Antes que llegue la luz (Planeta, 2021) que describe el paso del huracán María en el 2017. El trabajo de reconstrucción de la angustia y el dolor corre en dos líneas paralelas: la propia exploración de su vulnerabilidad y las voces de otros, que le cuentan su historia y ella solo las transcribe sin intervención. El resultado es una obra de no ficción que desnuda la fragilidad de todas las convenciones, desde la escritura hasta la idea del progreso en una ciudad sin luz, pero también descubre que tras la tragedia subyace la idea de comunidad y colectivo que une a los pueblos y da esperanza mientras esperas que llegue la luz. Desde esa perspectiva, el libro se plantea como una reflexión sobre la realidad. Dice: “De repente, la realidad se nos convirtió en aquello que veíamos y escuchábamos. No eran imágenes en pantalla ni voces ni voces por la radio, sino todo aquello. Las ramas, los árboles caídos, las calles anegadas, los pájaros muertos”. La reconstrucción de la vida pasa por esa experiencia dramática y frontal con la realidad. En la charla, Mayra Santos Febres habla incluso de la postura ética que la obligó a tomar ese exceso de realidad: ¿qué contar y desde dónde hacerlo? Mayra Santos Febres Nació en Carolina, Puerto Rico, el 26 de febrero de 1966. Estudió Literatura en la Universidad de Puerto Rico y dos posgrados en la Universidad de Cornell, Estados Unidos. Ha sido profesora invitada en varias universidades de América Latina, Estados Unidos y España. Santos Febres es profesora de Escritura Creativa de la Universidad de Puerto Rico en Río Piedras y miembro del Instituto Internacional y Multicultural de la misma institución. Actualmente es Investigadora Principal de PRAFRO, el Programa de Estudios Afrodiaspóricos y Raciales de la Universidad de Puerto Rico, fundado por la Fundación Mellon. También es miembro de SCORES, el Consejo de Solidaridad para la Equidad Racial de la Fundación Kellog. Entre sus obras destacan Sirena Selena vestida de pena” (2000), “Cualquier miércoles soy tuya” (2002), “Nuestra Señora de la noche” (finalista del premio Primavera, 2006), “Fe en disfraz” (2009) y “La amante de Gardel” (2015). Además, los ensayos: “Tratado de Medicina Natural para Hombres Melancólicos” y “Sobre piel y papel” Presenta Iván Thays, escritor peruano radicado actualmente en Filadelfia. Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Esta conversación con Mayra Santos Febres es sobre el mecanismo de escritura de una de las obras fundamentales del Puerto Rico contemporáneo: Antes que llegue la luz (Planeta, 2021) que describe el paso del huracán María en el 2017. El trabajo de reconstrucción de la angustia y el dolor corre en dos líneas paralelas: la propia exploración de su vulnerabilidad y las voces de otros, que le cuentan su historia y ella solo las transcribe sin intervención. El resultado es una obra de no ficción que desnuda la fragilidad de todas las convenciones, desde la escritura hasta la idea del progreso en una ciudad sin luz, pero también descubre que tras la tragedia subyace la idea de comunidad y colectivo que une a los pueblos y da esperanza mientras esperas que llegue la luz. Desde esa perspectiva, el libro se plantea como una reflexión sobre la realidad. Dice: “De repente, la realidad se nos convirtió en aquello que veíamos y escuchábamos. No eran imágenes en pantalla ni voces ni voces por la radio, sino todo aquello. Las ramas, los árboles caídos, las calles anegadas, los pájaros muertos”. La reconstrucción de la vida pasa por esa experiencia dramática y frontal con la realidad. En la charla, Mayra Santos Febres habla incluso de la postura ética que la obligó a tomar ese exceso de realidad: ¿qué contar y desde dónde hacerlo? Mayra Santos Febres Nació en Carolina, Puerto Rico, el 26 de febrero de 1966. Estudió Literatura en la Universidad de Puerto Rico y dos posgrados en la Universidad de Cornell, Estados Unidos. Ha sido profesora invitada en varias universidades de América Latina, Estados Unidos y España. Santos Febres es profesora de Escritura Creativa de la Universidad de Puerto Rico en Río Piedras y miembro del Instituto Internacional y Multicultural de la misma institución. Actualmente es Investigadora Principal de PRAFRO, el Programa de Estudios Afrodiaspóricos y Raciales de la Universidad de Puerto Rico, fundado por la Fundación Mellon. También es miembro de SCORES, el Consejo de Solidaridad para la Equidad Racial de la Fundación Kellog. Entre sus obras destacan Sirena Selena vestida de pena” (2000), “Cualquier miércoles soy tuya” (2002), “Nuestra Señora de la noche” (finalista del premio Primavera, 2006), “Fe en disfraz” (2009) y “La amante de Gardel” (2015). Además, los ensayos: “Tratado de Medicina Natural para Hombres Melancólicos” y “Sobre piel y papel” Presenta Iván Thays, escritor peruano radicado actualmente en Filadelfia. Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Esta conversación con Mayra Santos Febres es sobre el mecanismo de escritura de una de las obras fundamentales del Puerto Rico contemporáneo: Antes que llegue la luz (Planeta, 2021) que describe el paso del huracán María en el 2017. El trabajo de reconstrucción de la angustia y el dolor corre en dos líneas paralelas: la propia exploración de su vulnerabilidad y las voces de otros, que le cuentan su historia y ella solo las transcribe sin intervención. El resultado es una obra de no ficción que desnuda la fragilidad de todas las convenciones, desde la escritura hasta la idea del progreso en una ciudad sin luz, pero también descubre que tras la tragedia subyace la idea de comunidad y colectivo que une a los pueblos y da esperanza mientras esperas que llegue la luz. Desde esa perspectiva, el libro se plantea como una reflexión sobre la realidad. Dice: “De repente, la realidad se nos convirtió en aquello que veíamos y escuchábamos. No eran imágenes en pantalla ni voces ni voces por la radio, sino todo aquello. Las ramas, los árboles caídos, las calles anegadas, los pájaros muertos”. La reconstrucción de la vida pasa por esa experiencia dramática y frontal con la realidad. En la charla, Mayra Santos Febres habla incluso de la postura ética que la obligó a tomar ese exceso de realidad: ¿qué contar y desde dónde hacerlo? Mayra Santos Febres Nació en Carolina, Puerto Rico, el 26 de febrero de 1966. Estudió Literatura en la Universidad de Puerto Rico y dos posgrados en la Universidad de Cornell, Estados Unidos. Ha sido profesora invitada en varias universidades de América Latina, Estados Unidos y España. Santos Febres es profesora de Escritura Creativa de la Universidad de Puerto Rico en Río Piedras y miembro del Instituto Internacional y Multicultural de la misma institución. Actualmente es Investigadora Principal de PRAFRO, el Programa de Estudios Afrodiaspóricos y Raciales de la Universidad de Puerto Rico, fundado por la Fundación Mellon. También es miembro de SCORES, el Consejo de Solidaridad para la Equidad Racial de la Fundación Kellog. Entre sus obras destacan Sirena Selena vestida de pena” (2000), “Cualquier miércoles soy tuya” (2002), “Nuestra Señora de la noche” (finalista del premio Primavera, 2006), “Fe en disfraz” (2009) y “La amante de Gardel” (2015). Además, los ensayos: “Tratado de Medicina Natural para Hombres Melancólicos” y “Sobre piel y papel” Presenta Iván Thays, escritor peruano radicado actualmente en Filadelfia. Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

No episódio de hoje da nossa série ABC das RI, Thays comenta sobre uma das teorias mais famosas das Relações Internacionais: o realismo! Venha entender mais sobre os autores dessa escola de pensamento e descobrir o papel do poder e da sobrevivência no pensamento desses autores. ⚠️ Siga o @dicotomia_cast no ⁠Instagram⁠ e ⁠Twitter⁠. Assine a nossa newsletter ⁠Dicotomias Expressas.⁠ ⚠️ ▊▊▊▊▊▊▊▊▊▊▊▊▊▊▊▊▊▊▊▊▊▊▊▊▊▊▊▊▊▊▊▊▊▊▊▊▊ Indicações e referências Nizar Messari e João Ponte Nogueira. Teoria das Relações Internacionais: correntes e debates. Rio de Janeiro: Campus Elsevier, 2005. Robert Jacson e Georg Sørensen. Introdução às relações internacionais – 3a edição revista e ampliada: Teorias e abordagens. Editora Schwarcz-Companhia das Letras, 2018. Karen Mingst. Princípios de relações internacionais. Elsevier Brasil, 2016.  Kenneth Waltz. Man, the state, and war: a theoretical analysis. New York: Columbia University Press, 2001. Kenneth Waltz. Theory of international politics. New York: McGraham Hill, 1979. John Mearsheimer et al. The tragedy of great power politics. WW Norton & Company, 2001. Clássicos IPRI: Hans Morgenthau - A Política Entre as Nações; Tucídides - História da guerra do Peloponeso. Nicolau Maquiavel - O Príncipe Thomas Hobbes - O Leviatã Ficha técnica:  Apresentação: Thays Santos Roteiro, edição e texto: Paula Renata Santos Arte da série: Paula Renata Santos ▊▊▊▊▊▊▊▊▊▊▊▊▊▊▊▊▊▊▊▊▊▊▊▊▊▊▊▊▊▊▊▊▊▊▊▊▊ --- Send in a voice message: https://podcasters.spotify.com/pod/show/dicotomia-cast/message

Você sabe qual é a diferença entre as milícias e o tráfico? Essa é uma das questões abordadas no episódio de hoje e que muitas vezes gera dúvida.

En Santiago Adicto conversamos con la experta en paisaje de Argentina, Sonia Berjman, donde hablamos de Prager, Dubois y especialmente, de Carlos Thays (I, II, III y IV).

APRESENTAÇÃO O bloco #SegundasTrajetórias foi criado pensando na dimensão da história pública, aquela que é feita não somente para vários públicos, mas COM estes públicos. A nova série será dedicada à experiência de mulheres em sua mais ampla concepção. Suas trajetórias serão nosso mote para oferecer às nossas ouvintes a pluralidade das existências na contemporaneidade. Produziremos registros e também pretendemos valorizar cada vivência compartilhada em nossos episódios. Nosso objetivo é divulgar pesquisas e produzir materiais que possam ser uma ferramenta didática. Mas, como historiadoras não podemos deixar de pensar que estamos também produzindo fontes para a História. E é por isso que, nesse novo bloco, que irá ao ar todos os meses, cada trajetória também será material de pesquisa e irá contar a história dos feminismos e das feministas no Brasil. Tendo em visto este mês emblemático para refletirmos o protagonismo de travestis e transexuais, Michele Pires e Marta Rovai assumem o bloco “Segundas Trajetórias” do mês de Janeiro, dedicado ao Dia Nacional da Visibilidade Trans e Travesti.  FICHA TÉCNICA Segundas Feministas Episódio 127: #SegundasTrajetórias  Convidadas: Wall Alves e Thays Minutty Equipe de Produção (projeto e execução): Direção Geral (Coordenação): Andréa Bandeira (UPE) Direção executiva: Kaoana Sopelsa (UFGD) e Marcela Boni (USP) Pesquisa, Roteiro e Locução: Michele Pires (UFAM) e Marta Rovai (UNIFAL) Vozes: Marcela Boni (USP) e Indiara Launa Teodoro (UPE) Edição de áudio: Natália Oliveira (UPE) Pesquisa gráfica, Arte e Social media: Kaoana Sopelsa (UFGD), Suane Felippe Soares (UFRJ), Aline Coutinho (UFRJ), Marília Belmonte (UNESP), Maria Clara de Oliveira (Unimontes-MG), Ingryd Damásio Ribeiro Tófani (Unimontes-MG) e Renan de Souza Nascimento (Unimontes-MG) Colaboração: Cláudia Maia (Unimontes-MG) e Natália Cavalcanti (IFPA) Trilha sonora: Ekena, Todxs Putxs (2017) Realização e apoio: Universidade de Pernambuco/NUPECS; GT GÊNERO ANPUH Brasil; PPGH da Universidade Estadual de Montes Claros e ANPUH Brasil. País/Ano: Brasil/2023 www.instagram.com/segundasfeministas/ www.facebook.com/Segundas-Feministas/

Talk com minha amiga super especial sobre psicodélicos (cogumelos e ketamina) , clarividência, amor próprio, padrões tóxicos familiares e muito mais!Instagram para entrar em contato com a Thays:https://instagram.com/reikibluelotus?igshid=Nzg3NjI1NGI=WEBSITE:https://laisamaverick.com/pt/Entre para a tribo do Telegram:https://t.me/+qluGOnA7P1NmZDFhCirculo de Mulheres whatsapp:https://chat.whatsapp.com/D4UKwV1ZRv878dclCWi9aTEntra também no grupo Psiconautas Brasileiros do facebook pra discutir o assunto e saber sobre os proximos videos:https://www.facebook.com/groups/862641301224047Veja mais informações sobre psicodélicos no meu instagram:https://www.instagram.com/laisamaverick/Um grande abraço!!Laisa MaverickDisclaimer: Esse vídeo tem como objetivo a redução de danos e deve ser utilizado somente para fins educacionais. Não sou responsável nem recomendo a utilização dessas substâncias.#constelaçãofamiliar #autoconhecimento #psicodelicos #cogumelos WEBSITE:https://laisamaverick.com/pt/Veja mais informações sobre psicodélicos no meu instagram:https://www.instagram.com/laisamaverick/Entre para a tribo do Telegram:https://t.me/+qluGOnA7P1NmZDFhCirculo de Mulheres whatsapp:https://chat.whatsapp.com/D4UKwV1ZRv878dclCWi9aTEntra também no grupo Psiconautas Brasileiros:https://www.facebook.com/groups/862641301224047

Saindo um pouco do verde e amarelo e dos apitos da Copa, o Dicotomia trouxe nesse novo episódio uma região e um ator um tanto quanto polêmico

Bossa Nova is a colourful café in Carlton where owners Gabriel and Gabriela Gebaile are serving up food that will remind people of the food back home in Brazil or introduce people to Brazilian flavours if they haven't tried them before. I wrote about them for Broadsheet when Bossa Nova first opened, and I was happy to hear from Gabriel again telling me about his Friday and Saturday steak nights. I of course talk the opportunity to ask to talk to his chefs, Thays and Suzan. And I am so glad I did. Thays was nervous because of her English, but she had nothing to worry about. Both Thays and Suzan were honest and open with me in what they shared about how hard it is to be a chef, but also how rewarding, what they miss from home in Brazil and there really was a theme of how great potatoes are from Thays. I loved this chat and I am looking forward to going back to Bossa Nova for some lunch or to check out their Friday and Saturday steak nights. They had me at tropical cocktails, Picanha from the Grill and South American wines, but now that I have met Thays and Suzan and caught up with Gabriel again, I was reminded that it feels like a big happy family at Bossa Nova and that makes the whole place feel great and the best kind of vibe to dine in.

Boas-vindas para este sotaque ligeiramente diferente do que o ouvinte do Dicotomia está acostumado a ouvir. A voz é da Thays - uma das novas integrantes aqui do Podcast. E hoje, o Dicotomia e a Thays apresentam o Brime. "É de comer? de beber? ou passar no pão?". Nada disso, caro ouvinte, um recente estilo de viver é o verdadeiro assunto desse episódio. A música e a cultura do Grime, que surge na Inglaterra e é transformada pelo Brasil, veio para ficar e se mostrar ao mundo. Achou interessante? Então coloca a camisa do corigão (ouvintes entenderão) e vem escutar o mais novo ep. do Dicotomia. A arte do episódio faz uma alusão a capa do EP "BRIME!" dos artistas Febem e Fleezus e o produtor CESRV Esse episódio contou com trechos das músicas abaixo, respeitando o artigo 46 da Lei de Direitos Autorais: Wiley ft. Devlin - Bring Them All / Holy Grime (Prod. By @MrVirgoOfficial) LEALL - Pedro Bala Ficha técnica Apresentação e Roteiro: Thays Santos Edição e imagem: Enio Sacramento --- Send in a voice message: https://anchor.fm/dicotomia-cast/message

Todos os especialistas de relacionamento dizem que a chave do sucesso é o diálogo. Mas e quando cada pessoa fala um idioma? Como isso pode funcionar? Pra isso, em uma atmosfera caótica, convidei minhas mais que amigas, friends, pra falar sobre essa pauta. Eu posso te garantir boas risadas e uma introdução ao tema, mas por favor, vá se conhecer!Siga as meninas no Instagram:@falamessina (Bruna)@oitha.conceicao (Thays)@verasgabi (Gabriela)Apoie o Fala Messina, faça um Pix para: pix@rpnt.com.br ou assine o nosso padrim: https://www.padrim.com.br/fala-messinaFicha técnica: Host & Roteiro: Bruna MessinaProdução: RPNT Conteúdo CriativoEdição: Fábio Devito Este podcast utiliza trilhas de Epidemic Sound.

Todos os especialistas de relacionamento dizem que a chave do sucesso é o diálogo. Mas e quando cada pessoa fala um idioma? Como isso pode funcionar? Pra isso, em uma atmosfera caótica, convidei minhas mais que amigas, friends, pra falar sobre essa pauta. Eu posso te garantir boas risadas e uma introdução ao tema, mas por favor, vá se conhecer! Siga as meninas no Instagram: @falamessina (Bruna) @oitha.conceicao (Thays) @verasgabi (Gabriela) Apoie o Fala Messina, faça um Pix para: pix@rpnt.com.br ou assine o nosso padrim: https://www.padrim.com.br/fala-messina Ficha técnica: Host & Roteiro: Bruna Messina Produção: RPNT Conteúdo Criativo Edição: Fábio Devito Este podcast utiliza trilhas de Epidemic Sound.

Salve querido ouvinte! Neste episódio recebemos três líderes de jovens e adolescentes: Dodô, Thays e Davi, para contar alguns perrengues que eles já viveram no dia a dia cuidando dessa galera! --- Send in a voice message: https://anchor.fm/pocast-podcast/message

Nuestro invitado de hoy es Eduardo Izaguirre Godoy escritor peruano que nació en Lima en 1975. Publicista de profesión, cursó talleres de narrativa con los escritores peruanos Iván Thays y Jorge Eduardo Benavides. En 2021 obtuvo el Premio Latinoamericano de Primera Novela Sergio Galindo por su obra Avenida Colonial. Absorbido por el trabajo, por su teléfono celular y por los conflictos familiares, Mateo se entrega a un largo recorrido nocturno por la Avenida Colonial, en Lima, Perú. En este viaje enfrenta situaciones extremas de la mano de dos seres de la noche, Maribel y Calderón, polos opuestos conectados por la violencia y por la necesidad de sobrevivir en una ciudad que no da tregua. Por otro lado, una mujer aparece en la vida de Mateo de manera singular y coincide con un momento de su vida laboral que se asemeja, peligrosamente, a una olla de presión. Es la trama de Avenida Colonial, ganadora del Premio Latinoamericano de Primera Novela Sergio Galindo, una travesía que revela la fragilidad y la dureza a partes iguales, un camino sin fin en las entrañas de una ciudad indolente para sus hijos menos afortunados.

In today's episode we will find out how municipalities can contribute to creating sustainable food environments. I had the chance to interview Thays Thatiane Padilha, previous project planner and international relationships manager at the secretariat for food security at the municipality of Curitiba, Brazil. Thays will tell us more about different inspiring initiatives such as how the municipality has built an urban farm at the city centre of Curitiba, how they create community gardens in empty spaces and what are the solidarity tables and the restaurants of the people.  In the second half of the episode we will have a conversation with Davide Zarri, project officer at the municipality of Bergamo, in Italy.  Davide will explain how different public initiatives have been developed to foster sustainable food environments. We will learn about the biodiversity valley, the project of organic school canteens, the food policy council and much more. So, get ready for an exciting episode where you can hear of public initiatives that can be potentially replicated in your municipality as well!  Guests: Thays Thatiane Padilha, municipality of Curitiba; Davide Zarri, municipality of Bergam; Gabriela Bonilha, SFYN Brazil national coordinator. Host, production & editing: Valentina Gritti. Music: Leonardo Prieto Dorantes. Design: Pop-eye studio. A project by the Slow Food Youth Network

Em 1931, no seu livro The Epic of America , James Truslow Adams, criou o termo “o sonho americano”: nos Estados Unidos, a terra da oportunidade, o sonho de uma vida plena era possível e dependia apenas da habilidade e do esforço das pessoas. Em West Side Story , um dos musicais mais emblemáticos de todos os tempos, escrito por Arthur Laurents e com letras e música de Stephen Sondheim, a canção "América" se destaca como uma reflexão hilária e controverso da imigrante Rosalia contra Anita, uma que deprecia a cidade natal em Porto Rico, e a outra que exalta de maneira utópica os Estados Unidos, respectivamente. “Tudo é de graça na América por uma pequena taxa”. “Conforto é tudo o que você tem na América”. Essa era a visão de pessoas como Anita, em meados da década de 1950, que fugiram dos seus países para tentar uma vida melhor na "terra das oportunidades". Todas essas pessoas estavam atrás de um objetivo: o tão esperando sonho americano, que se tornou uma falácia assim que começou a ser comercializado para maximizar e potencializar a imagem de um país utópico — e há muito já deixou de existir. Além da alta procura existe essa imagem de área utópica que foi criada. Para onde estamos caminhando? Como fazer as pessoas terem as suas expectativas alinhadas com a realidade? Perfil do Alex: https://bit.ly/3dRnJgf Perfil da Thays: https://bit.ly/33BhWsl Perfil da Fernanda: https://bit.ly/3kgpytE Perfil da Julia: https://bit.ly/3M1ObVm --------------------------------------- Quer trabalhar no Banco Itaú? Então só vem! https://bit.ly/3SmzNLA _____

‘Escritores perseguidos'. Homenaje de Patricia del Río al escritor de origen indio, Salman Rushdie, quien hace más de un par de semanas sufrió un atentado por perseverar en su derecho a escribir con libertad. Autor de ‘Hijos de la medianoche', la mejor de sus novelas, y ‘Los versos satánicos', considerado uno de los libros más peligrosos del mundo, se ganó el repudio y persecución del fundamentalismo islámico por considerarlo una amenaza para su cultura y religión. En este especial, también le rendimos homenaje a los escritores de todos los tiempos que pagaron su terquedad por seguir escribiendo con el destierro, el maltrato, el golpe o la muerte. Al respecto, el escritor Iván Thays, comenta sobre el atentado a Rushdie y los riesgos de este tipo de literatura. En la secuencia ‘El libro de la semana', conversamos con Hugo Viladegut Bush, educador, locutor profesional y ‘la voz institucional' de Radio Programas del Perú, de su reciente libro Locución de la ‘A' a la ‘Z'. Manual para locutores y para quienes quieran mejorar el habla personal. Por su parte, el periodista Diego Pajares recomienda películas inspiradas en esta temática: ‘Misery', con James Caan y Kathy Bates; y ‘Basada en hechos reales', de Delphine de Vigan. Mientras que Julio Zavala, crítico literario y gerente de la librería ‘Escena libre', comenta los libros imprescindibles de la semana: ‘El rehén', de Gabriel Mamani (novela); '72 fotogramas', de Alberto ‘Chicho' Durant (relatos); y ‘Soy señora. Testimonio de Irene Jara', de Francesca Denegri (ensayo). Las canciones que hacen alusión a este especial son: ‘Clouds', con Ema Shah; ‘For children', de Bela Bartok, Vol. 1 y 2, Sz 42; ‘Memoria raíz', por Batallones femeninos; ‘Quiero salir Managua', por Ailime; ‘L'elisir d'amore / Act 2: Una furtiva lágrima', por Juan Diego Florez; ‘Los dinosaurios', de Charly García; ‘Derecho de vivir en paz', de Víctor Jara. Conducción: Patricia del Río ||| Producción: Amelia Villanueva ||| Edición de audio: Andrés Rodríguez ||| Episodio 32 – Tercera temporada.

‘Escritores perseguidos'. Homenaje de Patricia del Río al escritor de origen indio, Salman Rushdie, quien hace más de un par de semanas sufrió un atentado por perseverar en su derecho a escribir con libertad. Autor de ‘Hijos de la medianoche', la mejor de sus novelas, y ‘Los versos satánicos', considerado uno de los libros más peligrosos del mundo, se ganó el repudio y persecución del fundamentalismo islámico por considerarlo una amenaza para su cultura y religión. En este especial, también le rendimos homenaje a los escritores de todos los tiempos que pagaron su terquedad por seguir escribiendo con el destierro, el maltrato, el golpe o la muerte. Al respecto, el escritor Iván Thays, comenta sobre el atentado a Rushdie y los riesgos de este tipo de literatura. En la secuencia ‘El libro de la semana', conversamos con Hugo Viladegut Bush, educador, locutor profesional y ‘la voz institucional' de Radio Programas del Perú, de su reciente libro Locución de la ‘A' a la ‘Z'. Manual para locutores y para quienes quieran mejorar el habla personal. Por su parte, el periodista Diego Pajares recomienda películas inspiradas en esta temática: ‘Misery', con James Caan y Kathy Bates; y ‘Basada en hechos reales', de Delphine de Vigan. Mientras que Julio Zavala, crítico literario y gerente de la librería ‘Escena libre', comenta los libros imprescindibles de la semana: ‘El rehén', de Gabriel Mamani (novela); '72 fotogramas', de Alberto ‘Chicho' Durant (relatos); y ‘Soy señora. Testimonio de Irene Jara', de Francesca Denegri (ensayo). Las canciones que hacen alusión a este especial son: ‘Clouds', con Ema Shah; ‘For children', de Bela Bartok, Vol. 1 y 2, Sz 42; ‘Memoria raíz', por Batallones femeninos; ‘Quiero salir Managua', por Ailime; ‘L'elisir d'amore / Act 2: Una furtiva lágrima', por Juan Diego Florez; ‘Los dinosaurios', de Charly García; ‘Derecho de vivir en paz', de Víctor Jara. Conducción: Patricia del Río ||| Producción: Amelia Villanueva ||| Edición de audio: Andrés Rodríguez ||| Episodio 32 – Tercera temporada.

Igreja Livres Do Medo Pastor Rodrigo Prado https://instagram.com/rodrigopradopr VISÃO Alcançar aqueles que não conhecem o amor de Deus, através da pregação da graça, sem o legalismo da religião e revelando o amor de Deus, em Jesus. MISSÃO Promover uma transformação social através da pregação do Evangelho da graça e do amor incondicional de Deus, libertando as pessoas do medo de Deus, do fracasso e da rejeição. Equipar os filhos de Deus para serem protagonistas em todas as esferas da sociedade.

Thays Elizabeth

CANAL DE CORTES: https://www.youtube.com/c/SapiensCortes/ ------------------------------------------- Convidada: Thays Paiva Alimentos e bebidas Manager and Head #Bartender

En Santiago Adicto conversamos con la experta en paisaje de Argentina, Sonia Berjman, donde hablamos de Prager, Dubois y especialmente, de Carlos Thays (I, II, III y IV).

Fique conectado e nos acompanhe nas redes sociais: https:www.instagram.com/segundaigreja.online https://www.facebook.com/segundaigrejaon #segundaigrejaonline #profundidade #igrejaemcélulas

Bem-vindo ao primeiro episódio da série Nosso Lar com Charlotte Mason!

Thays Monteiro

Fique conectado e nos acompanhe nas redes sociais: https:www.instagram.com/segundaigreja.online https://www.facebook.com/segundaigrejaon

Formada em Engenharia Ambiental e também Segurança do Trabalho no Brasil Thays Brito realizou um intercâmbio na Inglaterra de dois meses, retornou para o Brasil e ficou com aquele gosto de quero mais. Após mais um tempo no Brasil decidiu ir em definitivo para a Irlanda realizar o sonho do intercâmbio de Inglês, trabalhou nos empregos de salário mínimo. Manteve sempre seu Linkedin atualizado se preparando para começar a aplicar para as vagas na área de Segurança do Trabalho Após algumas propostas e entrevistas frustradas, recebeu o SIM e teve seu visto de trabalho como Critical Skills na Irlanda. Estamos trazendo o nosso conteúdo com os profissionais das diversas engenharias agora para o PodCast Siga nosso PODCAST que em breve todas as lives do YouTube também estarão disponíveis aqui. instagram - https://www.instagram.com/eu.engineer YouTube - https://www.youtube.com/EUengineer Beatriz Gilli - EU.engineer - info@euengineer.com.br - https://euengineer.com.br --- Send in a voice message: https://podcasters.spotify.com/pod/show/euengineer/message

Pense rápido: você se imagina vivendo sem as redes sociais hoje? Sim ou não? Provavelmente você se deu conta do quanto elas participam e têm influência na sua vida, não é? Mas será que isso tem acontecido de forma positiva? Será que o conteúdo que você tem absorvido realmente agrega valor ao seu dia a dia? Pois é. Hoje quem conversa um pouquinho sobre o universo digital e ensina como extrair o melhor de tudo isso é Thays Lessa (@thaysslessa) – digital influencer e criadora de conteúdo de mão cheia que leva criatividade, moda, fotografia e a palavra de Deus aos seus seguidores de um jeito todo especial, só dela. Pronto(a) para um papo incrível? Clica no play e vem!

36 EDICION 2017/09/05 Entrevista A Thays Peñalver by Luis Chataing