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"A blend of traditional Arabic/Middle Eastern rhythms mixed with modern grooves. George performs as a solo artist or with the MBOrchestra and guest musicians an array of styles, from folkloric or classical Arabic to dance music."
St. George Island is an island off the Florida Panhandle in the northern Gulf of Mexico. It is in Franklin County, Florida, United States.
It's so beautiful there!
Don't use this image on websites, blogs or other media without my explicit permission. © All rights reserved.
182 George Street, Providence, RI
Built for: Henry Pearce
Built in: 1898
Architect: Angell & Swift (Providence)
Style: Romanesque Revival
Original Use: Single-Family Residence
Current Use: Educational
Notes: Now Brown University's Department of Applied Mathematics.
George Dyson: The Canoe and the Code
George Dyson is lanky and quiet in that way that suggests a life lived both in thought and on the water. On a damp April morning in Bellingham, Washington, he met me dressed in a blue fisherman’s sweater, the color of tide-washed denim, a garment that seemed to belong to both the sea and the sky. There’s something unmistakably familial in his bearing—the long, thoughtful face, the gentle smile. As he grows older, he resembles his father, Freeman Dyson, more and more. But George is, unmistakably, his own man: a writer, historian of technology, boatbuilder, and builder of worlds.
His home sits on the edge of things—close to the sea, surrounded by trees, filled with books and sketches and the soft presence of a cat named Nikita, who lives up to her name. She’s named after Nikita Shumagin, the first of Bering’s crew to die of scurvy in 1741—a nod to George’s deep engagement with exploration, history, and the often-overlooked figures that shaped it. The house feels like a mind made physical: ideas roosting on shelves, a telescope pointed toward the harbor where his boat Ranger rests on blocks. Nearby, a shelf holds a full run of translations of The Starship and the Canoe, Kenneth Brower’s 1978 book about the parallel lives of Freeman and George Dyson. Neal Stephenson—one of many who admire George’s work—wrote the foreword to the 2020 reprint.
George showed me photos of the treehouse he built and lived in from 1972 to 1975, thirty meters up a Douglas fir on the shores of Burrard Inlet. He salvaged every piece of it. There was no electricity, no running water. It was, in every sense, a complete space: a livable idea suspended between the earth and the sky.
That idea of the “complete space” returned again and again throughout our day together. After his home, we walked to his workshop—located in the former Dick’s Tavern, a dive bar with a history of its own. It still has the feel of a gathering place—but now for wood, aluminum, tools, and dreams. This is Dyson, Baidarka & Company, his boatbuilding space. Aleutian kayaks—long and sinewy—sit on platforms in various stages of becoming. Plans are rolled and stacked neatly. Tools hang on the wall like instruments in a sound studio. In the back, a modest bed waits, a reminder that this has been a home.
“I could live here,” he said, almost offhandedly. “And I have.”
There’s no romantic affectation to it—just a fact, as true as a boat’s draft or the pitch of a sail. In this space, George is both naval architect and philosopher, a man building vessels not only to move through water, but to carry meaning.
A few minutes’ walk brought us to the harbor, where Ranger—a Fisher 30 motorsailer built in 1976 in Southampton—sat, lifted from the sea for repair. He visits her nearly every day. This is his favorite place. We climbed the ladder to the cockpit, stepping over the railing, ducking belowdecks where the floorboards were lifted to expose the engine. He was mid-project, sleeves pushed up, parts spread like puzzle pieces. You could see the joy in his eyes. The boat, like the baidarka, like the treehouse, is a world he has made for himself. It doesn’t just move through space—it moves through thought.
Watching him there, crouched over the engine, it all came into view: the treehouse, the baidarka, the workshop, the boat. These are more than places—they are systems. Each one a self-contained cosmos, a structure for living, thinking, observing. They are his way of being in the world—immersed, but also just outside of it. Not disconnected, but differently connected.
Many have called George Dyson “Thoreau-esque,” and it’s true in a sense. But he’s no hermit, and certainly no Luddite. He’s deeply engaged in the discourse around technology. What sets him apart is his vantage point. He’s not caught up in the rush of the tech world’s constant reinvention, but he’s not nostalgic for some pre-digital past either. His critiques come from the waterline—from a mind trained to think structurally, to understand what keeps something afloat.
He’s written several books that trace the evolution of our tools and ideas—from Darwin Among the Machines, which reawakens Samuel Butler’s 19th-century speculation about machine evolution, to Project Orion, about the audacious attempt to launch a nuclear-propelled spaceship, to Turing’s Cathedral, a remarkable deep dive into the origins of digital computing at the Institute for Advanced Study in Princeton. His writing connects kayaks and code, wilderness and algorithms, with a sense of pattern and implication often missing from more narrowly focused accounts of technology.
We talked about artificial intelligence. He’s less concerned about the usual apocalyptic fears and more interested in a quieter erosion: that “Good AI,” the kind that works too well, might slowly displace our capacity to reason. That we’ll gradually delegate too much—our judgment, our critical thinking, even our curiosity—to systems we’ve designed to serve us. It’s not the monster at the gate that troubles him. It’s the soft, helpful voice we welcome in.
His thinking exists within a far-reaching constellation of big thinkers—friends and fellow travelers like Stewart Brand, Kevin Kelly, and Neal Stephenson—people whose work, like his, moves fluidly between history, technology, and imagination. Others, like J. Robert Oppenheimer and Stephen Hawking, were part of his father’s world and, by extension, his own: mentors, correspondents, and passing dinner guests who became part of the background fabric of George’s intellectual life. Some he’s known through decades of conversation, others through the thick web of letters and stories that surrounded Freeman Dyson. Ideas were always in the air—shared across pages, passed around tables, or carried by the tide.
Later in the afternoon, as the light faded over Bellingham Bay, we sat near the harbor, drinking cold beer at a pub that, George noted, used to be a tool rental shop. The conversation drifted, as it tends to with him—from engines to ancestors, from shipbuilding to the shape of the internet. History here doesn’t feel like something behind us—it feels tidal, patient, always flowing underneath.
George Dyson builds boats, yes—but more than that, he builds frameworks. He builds stories. He builds spaces that let us ask, and sometimes even live inside, the essential questions: What are we building? Why? And what will we carry with us when the tide turns?
This is George our Horse He is a Welsh Cob Section D , his full name is Rosewell Glangeorge he is 15.2 Hh
His mother was called Rosewell Maxine and her Father was Synoden Black Max
George and I write the next 'Leave it to Mrs O'Brien' in his front room. The comedy world quakes in its boots.
George I as St George, atop the tower of St George’s Bloomsbury
one of the twelve new churches designed and paid for under the 1711 Act of Parliament for building Fifty New Churches, and the sixth and final London church designed by the leading architect of the English Baroque, Nicholas Hawksmoor. The 1711 Act of Parliament was passed by the new Tory government in response to the increasing number of non-conformist chapels and places of worship in London, all of which were intended to serve its rapidly growing population. The Commissioners of the Act, led by Sir Christopher Wren, quickly set about identifying those areas of London most in need of new places of worship directly controlled by the Church of England. The land on which the church is built (the ‘Ploughyard’) was bought for £1,000 from Lady Russell, widow of the Whig rebel Lord John Russell who had been executed in 1683. This is not an insubstantial sum, which begs the question why it was spent on a narrow, rectangular plot of land on a North-South axis that was hemmed in by buildings on all sides; a purchase which seemed to fly in the face of the Commissioners’ 1711 stipulation that “no site ought to be pitched upon for the erecting [of] a new church where the same will not admit the church to be placed East and West.” Perhaps the orientation of the site was deemed a surmountable obstacle, especially since the site met the needs of the commissioners in that it was situated “amongst the… better sort… [and on] the larger and more open streets, not in obscure lanes, nor where coaches will be much obstructed in the passage.” The land purchase was the work of one of the two surveyors appointed by the Commissioners of the 1711 Act: Nicholas Hawksmoor. Unlike others appointed by the Commissioners, Hawksmoor continued to work as a surveyor of the 1711 Act churches until his death in 1736. Of the twelve churches completed, he would ultimately be responsible for designing six, of which St George’s Bloomsbury was the last. His final designs for St George’s, however, were only commissioned and then adopted after earlier designs by James Gibbs and Sir John Vanburgh (who proposed building a church with the altar in the north) were rejected by the Commissioners. St George’s was consecrated on the 28th January 1730 by Edmund Gibson, Bishop of London. At this time, Bloomsbury was part of the parish of St Giles in the Fields. Not only was St Giles unable to meet the needs of the increasing parish population, but it was also surrounded by one of London’s most notorious slums; the Rookery. Hogarth’s Gin Lane (1751), with the spire of St George’s clearly visible towards the top of the picture, gives us an idea of the squalor and despair that characterised the area. Regular visits to St Giles in the Fields would hardly have been an attractive proposition to the nobility, gentry and well to-do taking up residence in the fashionable streets and squares of Bloomsbury, built and managed by the Duke of Bedford. Despite the grandeur of Hawksmoor’s design, the parish Vestrymen felt that his completed church did not provide sufficient accommodation for the parish and, as a result, the church was re-orientated along a north-south axis in 1781. During the 19th century, St George’s was particularly active in the Church of England’s ‘civilizing mission’, providing practical help such as schools, a library and a soup kitchen for the local community. The early 20th century saw St George’s play an active role in both spiritual and secular affairs. In 1913, St George’s the church was the setting for the memorial service for Emily Davison, the suffragette who threw herself under the King’s horse in the Derby. In 1937, St George’s held a special service of remembrance for those killed during the Abyssinian War which was attended by Haile Selassie. From 1956 – 1968, St George’s Bloomsbury served as the University of London’s church, with the Rector as Senior Chaplain. After this association with the University of London had ended, the church struggled to establish a clear role for itself within the local community and fell into disrepair. Attempts during the 1990s to restore the building attracted the attention of the World Monuments Fund, whose subsequent adoption of the restoration of St George’s as a major project was the crucial first step towards the successfully- restored church.
[StGeorgesBloomsbury.org.uk]
The Monastery of St. George / Deir El Qelt - Stretching from the suburbs of Jerusalem to Jericho and the Jordan Valley, the path of Wadi Qelt is an amazing experience for hikers and nature lovers. Besides being a breathtaking hike, you can also travel by car or bus through the narrow Wadi Qelt Road and visit the Monastery of St. George in Kosiba.
Clinging to the slide of Wadi Qelt and overlooking the spring, this beautiful and serene Greek Orthodox Monastery was transformed by John of Thebes from a small oratory to the Monastery of today in 480 CE. It is also believed that the Monastery was damaged during the Persian invasion and restored by the Crusaders during the 12th century, with several new traditions being introduced. The present structure was restored by the Greek Orthodox Church in 1878 and 1901.
From: Visit Palestine
Left: George Haupt, Chief Virtualization Officer for AssuredPackets. Right: Wyndham Murray, Government Relations Manager for Wheat Systems.
St George's Church is a Church of England church on the Isle of Portland, built between 1754 and 1766 to replace St. Andrew's which had fallen into disuse and was no longer suitable as a place of worship.
During the 1960s a restoration of the church took place under the stewardship of a group formed to protect the church. It then came under the care of the Churches Conservation Trust, which continues to the present. No longer retained for regular worship, services are nevertheless held twice annually, on St George's Day and Christmas Day.
The history of St. George's Church began in August 1753. A committee of Portlanders was formed to decide whether to put further finances into the dilapidated St. Andrew's Church or to erect a new church at a more accessible position. St. Andrew's suffered from an unstable site and was prone to landslips (notably those on the east side of Portland in 1665 and 1734). Within two months a decision was made, with a survey of the old church finding that repairs would be at least half the cost of a new building. A year after the completion of the church, a house was built nearby for the parish clerk, and this building would become The George Inn.
The church was closed in 1914 for many reasons, and fell into further disrepair ever since that time. In the 1960s however, the church fell under the protection of a newly formed group, the 'Friends of St George's Church', who were able to restore the church. Now no longer needed for regular worship, the church is now a redundant church in the care of the Churches Conservation Trust. It was declared redundant on 16 April 1970, and was vested in the Trust on 27 October 1971.
Designed by architect and quarry merchant Thomas Gilbert, St George's is regarded as one of the most impressive 18th-century churches in Dorset. It is a large church built of Portland stone and has a tower, a nave, transepts, an apse, and a kind of 'abortive dome' over the crossing. The design is reminiscent of the works of Christopher Wren (particularly the tower, in relation to those of St Paul's Cathedral). The windows are arranged in two tiers, all with simple, broad raised frames that lack moulding. It is designated as a Grade I listed building. Gilbert is also believed to be the architect of a number of houses within the local area, including the Grade II* Listed Queen Anne House, his own residence built in the 18th century.
George Ezra
Pinkpop Festival 2015 - Day 1
Landgraaf, Megaland, Netherlands NL
12th June 2015
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for info and photos visit my website www.robertofinizio.it
Questa immagine è protetta da copyright © Roberto Finizio. Tutti i diritti sono riservati. L'immagine non deve essere utilizzata in nessun caso senza autorizzazione scritta dell'autore.
per info e materiale fotografico visita il mio sito www.robertofinizio.it
Took this one of George before the weather turned back to autumn like again (other wise known as the British Summer) Hot weather is forecast to be back next week - hopefully not as hot as they are having in the States at the moment from the reports that I have read!!
When it arrives I will once again have two cats looking pitiful in the heat.
Table on the OT monster quarter.
Minolta XG-1 | Minolta 50mm 1:2
1xSB20 camera left at 1/2
1xSB20 camera right at 1/2
fired with ebay triggers.
Kodak Tmax 400 | ID11 @ 1+3 for 15mins
Looking down in to a gun placement.
For my thoughts on Georges Island go here.
Here's a link to a Google maps view of the island.
www.bostonislands.org/ is the website if you want to go to the island.
George Street, Hintlesham, Suffolk, UK.
All photographic images are the exclusive property of Paddy Ballard. The photographs are for web browser viewing only and may not be reproduced, copied, stored, downloaded or altered in any way without prior permission.
George Dyson: The Canoe and the Code
George Dyson is lanky and quiet in that way that suggests a life lived both in thought and on the water. On a damp April morning in Bellingham, Washington, he met me dressed in a blue fisherman’s sweater, the color of tide-washed denim, a garment that seemed to belong to both the sea and the sky. There’s something unmistakably familial in his bearing, the long, thoughtful face, the gentle smile. As he grows older, he resembles his father, Freeman Dyson, more and more. But George is, unmistakably, his own man: a writer, historian of technology, boatbuilder, and builder of worlds.
His home sits on the edge of things, close to the sea, surrounded by trees, filled with books and sketches and the soft presence of a cat named Nikita, who lives up to her name. She’s named after Nikita Shumagin, the first of Bering’s crew to die of scurvy in 1741, a nod to George’s deep engagement with exploration, history, and the often-overlooked figures that shaped it. The house feels like a mind made physical: ideas roosting on shelves, a telescope pointed toward the harbor where his boat Ranger rests on blocks. Nearby, a shelf holds a full run of translations of The Starship and the Canoe, Kenneth Brower’s 1978 book about the parallel lives of Freeman and George Dyson. Neal Stephenson, one of many who admire George’s work, wrote the foreword to the 2020 reprint.
George showed me photos of the treehouse he built and lived in from 1972 to 1975, thirty meters up a Douglas fir on the shores of Burrard Inlet. He salvaged every piece of it. There was no electricity, no running water. It was, in every sense, a complete space: a livable idea suspended between the earth and the sky.
That idea of the “complete space” returned again and again throughout our day together. After his home, we walked to his workshop, located in the former Dick’s Tavern, a dive bar with a history of its own. It still has the feel of a gathering place, but now for wood, aluminum, tools, and dreams. This is Dyson, Baidarka & Company, his boatbuilding space. Aleutian kayaks, long and sinewy, sit on platforms in various stages of becoming. Plans are rolled and stacked neatly. Tools hang on the wall like instruments in a sound studio. In the back, a modest bed waits, a reminder that this has been a home.
“I could live here,” he said, almost offhandedly. “And I have.”
There’s no romantic affectation to it, just a fact, as true as a boat’s draft or the pitch of a sail. In this space, George is both naval architect and philosopher, a man building vessels not only to move through water, but to carry meaning.
A few minutes’ walk brought us to the harbor, where Ranger, a Fisher 30 motorsailer built in 1976 in Southampton, sat, lifted from the sea for repair. He visits her nearly every day. This is his favorite place. We climbed the ladder to the cockpit, stepping over the railing, ducking belowdecks where the floorboards were lifted to expose the engine. He was mid-project, sleeves pushed up, parts spread like puzzle pieces. You could see the joy in his eyes. The boat, like the baidarka, like the treehouse, is a world he has made for himself. It doesn’t just move through space, it moves through thought.
Watching him there, crouched over the engine, it all came into view: the treehouse, the baidarka, the workshop, the boat. These are more than places, they are systems. Each one a self-contained cosmos, a structure for living, thinking, observing. They are his way of being in the world, immersed, but also just outside of it. Not disconnected, but differently connected.
Many have called George Dyson “Thoreau-esque,” and it’s true in a sense. But he’s no hermit, and certainly no Luddite. He’s deeply engaged in the discourse around technology. What sets him apart is his vantage point. He’s not caught up in the rush of the tech world’s constant reinvention, but he’s not nostalgic for some pre-digital past either. His critiques come from the waterline, from a mind trained to think structurally, to understand what keeps something afloat.
He’s written several books that trace the evolution of our tools and ideas, from Darwin Among the Machines, which reawakens Samuel Butler’s 19th-century speculation about machine evolution, to Project Orion, about the audacious attempt to launch a nuclear-propelled spaceship, to Turing’s Cathedral, a remarkable deep dive into the origins of digital computing at the Institute for Advanced Study in Princeton. His writing connects kayaks and code, wilderness and algorithms, with a sense of pattern and implication often missing from more narrowly focused accounts of technology.
We talked about artificial intelligence. He’s less concerned about the usual apocalyptic fears and more interested in a quieter erosion: that “Good AI,” the kind that works too well, might slowly displace our capacity to reason. That we’ll gradually delegate too much, our judgment, our critical thinking, even our curiosity, to systems we’ve designed to serve us. It’s not the monster at the gate that troubles him. It’s the soft, helpful voice we welcome in.
His thinking exists within a far-reaching constellation of big thinkers, friends and fellow travelers like Stewart Brand, Kevin Kelly, and Neal Stephenson, people whose work, like his, moves fluidly between history, technology, and imagination. Others, like J. Robert Oppenheimer and Stephen Hawking, were part of his father’s world and, by extension, his own: mentors, correspondents, and passing dinner guests who became part of the background fabric of George’s intellectual life. Some he’s known through decades of conversation, others through the thick web of letters and stories that surrounded Freeman Dyson. Ideas were always in the air, shared across pages, passed around tables, or carried by the tide.
Later in the afternoon, as the light faded over Bellingham Bay, we sat near the harbor, drinking cold beer at a pub that, George noted, used to be a tool rental shop. The conversation drifted, as it tends to with him, from engines to ancestors, from shipbuilding to the shape of the internet. History here doesn’t feel like something behind us, it feels tidal, patient, always flowing underneath.
George Dyson builds boats, yes, but more than that, he builds frameworks. He builds stories. He builds spaces that let us ask, and sometimes even live inside, the essential questions: What are we building? Why? And what will we carry with us when the tide turns?