Academic literature on the topic 'Impression au tampon'

We consider the aspects of experiential marketing development as a marketing philosophy. The direction of experiential marketing was developed in line with experience economy. The concept is based on the thesis that a product or service purchase is accompanied by the impressions formation from the purchase process, and the nature of these impressions determines the consumers’loyalty to the brand of the company that offers goods or services. Experiential marketing develops at the junction of relationship marketing, emotional marketing, event marketing and show marketing. Experiential marketing is designed to make the process of purchasing a product or service more personalized. Experiential marketing began to be applied in areas related to sales of impression (hotel, restaurant business, etc.). The idea of marketing is used in the process of promoting university educational services. We cover the event promotion cases of Derzhavin Tambov State University, the essence of which reflects the ideas of experiential marketing. As a case study, we focus on experience of holding a special event “Night at Tambov State University named after G.R. Derzhavin”, aimed at development of positive impression among the guests. One of the “Night at Tambov State University named after G.R. Derzhavin” tasks was to demonstrate the university capabilities in an informal way, different from traditionally held events.

We discuss the years of ministration of St. Luke (Voyno-Yasenetsky), who was Archbishop of Tambov and Michurinsk and ruled the Tambov Eparchy from February 1944 to May 1946. We present the number of memories of witnesses who spoke with Archbishop Luke, attended his sacred services, helped in the restoration of the Pokrovsky parish, were his patients or worked together with His Grace in the evacuation hospitals of Tambov, where he was the chief surgeon-consultant and conducted his famous operations. We recorded memories of a senior cleric of the Cathedral of the Transfiguration of the Saviour of the city of Tambov, Mitred Archpriest Boris Zhabin, who at the age of seven first saw the Archbishop Luka, Lyubov Petrovna Abramova, who witnessed the revival of the Pokrovsky Cathedral of the city of Tambov during the ministra-tion of St. Luke, the participant of the Great Patriotic War, captain 1st rank Nikolay Stefanovich Chaplygin, as well as graduates of Tambov Medical School and nurses of the Tambov evacuation hospital Vera Ivanovna Levashova, Nina Nikolaevna Zayko and Claudia Timofeevna Chaplygina. Each of the witnesses reveals his story of meeting and communicating with Archbishop Luke, who left an indelible impression on their souls. From these memories and testimonies one can feel the atmosphere in which St. Luke’s years of ministration were held, it is even possible to reconstruct the way of life and the situation of that wartime. The vernacular language of each witness adds its own unique sound and at the same time reveals different traits of St. Luke’s personality. The collection of witnesses’ memories creates a kind of public portrait of the personality of the great scientist and hierarch and now the famous saint – St. Luke the Confessor (born Valentin Feliksovich Voyno-Yasenetsky).

Tatar population, represented by Kasimov Tatars and Mishars, traditionally lives in the eastern districts of the Ryazan region (the former districts of Ryazan and Tambov provinces), with a total number of about five thousand people. The area Tatars residence was traditionally adjacent to the Russian, which formed early ethnocultural contacts and mutual perception, lead to the observation of the ritual practices of each other. Funeral and memorial rituals, ritual food became the most vivid impression of the “Tatar faith” for Russian neighbours (this is how Islam is designated in this area), and Muslim cemeteries are perceived as the border of someone else›s sacred space. The research is based on materials from expeditions to Tatar and Russian (Russian-Tatar) villages of the Ryazan region within the framework of the project “The Shadows of the Kasimov Khanate”, carried out in 2015–2020.

Saturday, 24 July 1971, Tower Mill Hotel The man jiggles the brick, gauges its weight. His stout hand, a flash of his watch dial, the sleeve rolled back, muscles on the upper arm bundled tight. His face half-erased by the dark. There’s something going on beneath the surface that Murray can’t grasp. He thinks of the three witches in Polanski’s Macbeth, huddled together on the beach, digging a circle in the sand with bare hands, unwrapping their filthy bundle. A ritual. The brick’s in the air and it’s funny but Murray expected it to spin but it doesn’t, it holds its position, arcs forward, as though someone’s taken the sky and pulled it sideways to give the impression of movement, like those chase scenes in the Punch and Judy shows you don’t see anymore. The brick hits the cement and fractures. Red dust on cops’ shined shoes. Murray feels the same sense of shock he’d felt, sitting in the sagging canvas seat at one of his film nights, recognising the witches’ bundle, a severed human arm, hacked off just before the elbow; both times looking so intently, he had no distance or defence when the realisation came. ‘What is it?’ says Lan. Murray points to the man who threw the brick but she is looking the other way, at a cop in a white riot helmet, head like a globe, swollen up as though bitten. Lan stands on Murray’s feet to see. The pig yells through a megaphone: ‘You’re occupying too much of the road. It’s illegal. Step back. Step back.’ Lan’s back is pressed against Murray’s stomach; her bum fits snugly to his groin. He resists the urge to plant his cold hands on her warm stomach, to watch her squirm. She turns her head so her mouth is next to his ear, says, ‘Don’t move.’ She sounds winded, her voice without force. He’s pinned to the ground by her feet. Again, ‘Step back. Step back.’ Next to him, Roger begins a chant. ‘Springboks,’ he yells, the rest of the crowd picking up the chant, ‘out now!’ ‘Springboks!’ ‘Out now!’ Murray looks up, sees a hand pressed against the glass in one of the hotel’s windows, quickly withdrawn. The hand belongs to a white man, for sure. It must be one of the footballers, although the gesture is out of keeping with his image of them. Too timid. He feels tired all of a sudden. But Jacobus Johannes Fouché’s voice is in his head, these men—the Springboks—represent the South African way of life, and the thought of the bastard Bjelke inviting them here. He, Roger and Lan were there the day before when the footballers pulled up outside the Tower Mill Hotel in a black and white bus. ‘Can you believe the cheek of those bastards?’ said Roger when they saw them bounding off the bus, legs the span of Murray’s two hands. A group of five Nazis had been lined up in front of the glass doors reflecting the city, all in uniform: five sets of white shirts and thin black ties, five sets of khaki pants and storm-trooper boots, each with a red sash printed with a black and white swastika tied around their left arms, just above the elbow. The Springboks strode inside, ignoring the Nazi’s salute. The protestors were shouting. An apple splattered wetly on the sidewalk. Friday, 7 April 1972, St Lucia Lan left in broad daylight. Murray didn’t know why this upset him, except that he had a vague sense that she should’ve gone in the night time, under the cover of dark. The guilty should sneak away, with bowed heads and faces averted, not boldly, as though going for an afternoon walk. Lan had pulled down half his jumpers getting the suitcase from the top of the cupboard. She left his clothes scattered across the bedroom, victims of an explosion, an excess of emotion. In the two days after Lan left, Murray scours the house looking for some clue to where she was, maybe a note to him, blown off the table in the wind, or put down and forgotten in the rush. Perhaps there was a letter from her parents, bankrupt, demanding she return to Vietnam. Or a relative had died. A cousin in the Viet Cong napalmed. He finds a packet of her tampons in the bathroom cupboard, tries to flush them down the toilet, but they keep floating back up. They bloat; the knotted strings make them look like some strange water-dwelling creature, paddling in the bowl. He pees in the shower for a while, but in the end he scoops the tampons back out again with the holder for the toilet brush. The house doesn’t yield anything, so he takes to the garden, circles the place, investigates its underbelly. The previous tenant had laid squares of green carpet underneath, off-cuts that met in jagged lines, patches of dirt visible. Murray had set up two sofas, mouldy with age, on the carpeted part, would invite his friends to sit with him there, booze, discuss the state of the world and the problem with America. Roger rings in the afternoon, says, ‘What gives? We were supposed to have lunch.’ Murray says, ‘Lan’s left me.’ He knows he will cry soon. ‘Oh Christ. I’m so sorry,’ says Roger. Murray inhales, snuffs up snot. Roger coughs into the receiver. ‘It was just out of the blue,’ says Murray. ‘Where’s she gone?’ ‘I don’t know.’ ‘She didn’t say anything?’ ‘No,’ says Murray. ‘She could be anywhere. Maybe you should call the police, put in a missing report,’ says Roger. ‘I’m not too friendly with the cops,’ says Murray, and coughs. ‘You sound a bit crook. I’ll come over,’ says Roger. ‘That’d be good,’ says Murray. Roger turns up at the house an hour later, wearing wide pants and a tight collared shirt with thick white and red stripes. He’s growing a moustache, only cuts his hair when he visits his parents. Murray says, ‘I’ll make us a cuppa.’ Roger nods, sits down at the vinyl table with his hands resting on his knees. He says, ‘Are you coming to 291 on Sunday?’ 291 St Paul’s Terrace is the Brisbane Communist Party’s headquarters. Murray says, ‘What’s on?’ ‘Billy needs someone to look after the bookshop.’ Murray gives Roger a mug of tea, sits down with his own mug between his elbows, and cradles his head in his hands so his hair falls over his wrists. After a minute, Roger says, ‘Does her family know?’ Murray makes a strange noise through his hands. ‘I don’t even know how to contact them,’ he says. ‘She wrote them letters—couldn’t afford to phone—but she’s taken everything with her. The address book. Everything.’ Murray knows nothing of the specifics of Lan’s life before she met him. She was the first Asian he’d ever spoken to. She wore wrap-around skirts that changed colour in the sun; grew her hair below the waist; sat in the front row in class and never spoke. He liked the shape of her calf as it emerged from her skirt. He saw her on the great lawn filming her reflection in a window with a Sony Portapak and knew that he wanted her more than anything. Murray seduced her by saying almost nothing and touching her as often as he could. He was worried about offending her. What reading he had done made him aware of his own ignorance, and his friend in Psych told him that when you touch a girl enough — especially around the aureole — a hormone is released that bonds them to you, makes them sad when you leave them or they leave you. In conversation, Murray would put his hand on Lan’s elbow, once on the top of her head. Lan was ready to be seduced. Murray invited her to a winter party in his backyard. They kissed next to the fire and he didn’t notice until the next morning that the rubber on the bottom of his shoe melted in the flames. She moved into his house quickly, her clothes bundled in three plastic bags. He wanted her to stay in bed with him all day, imagined he was John Lennon and she Yoko Ono. Their mattress became a soup of discarded clothes, bread crumbs, wine stains, come stains, ash and flakes of pot. He resented her when she told him that she was bored, and left him, sheets pulled aside to reveal his erection, to go to class. Lan tutored high-schoolers for a while, but they complained to their mothers that they couldn’t understand her accent. She told him her parents wanted her to come home. The next night he tidied the house, and cooked her dinner. Over the green peas and potato—Lan grated ginger over hers, mixed it with chili and soy sauce, which she travelled all the way to Chinatown on a bus to buy—Murray proposed. They were married in the botanic gardens, surrounded by Murray’s friends. The night before his father called him up and said, ‘It’s not too late to get out of it. You won’t be betraying the cause.’ Murray said, ‘You have no idea what this means to me,’ and hung up on him. Sunday, 9 April 1972, 291 St Paul’s Terrace Murray perches on the backless stool behind the counter in The People’s Bookshop. He has the sense he is on the brink of something. His body is ready for movement. When a man walks into the shop, Murray panics because Billy hadn’t shown him how to use the cash register. He says, ‘Can I help?’ anyway. ‘No,’ says the man. The man walks the length of the shelves too fast to read the titles. He stops at a display of Australiana on a tiered shelf, slides his hand down the covers on display. He pauses at Crocodile Hunt. The cover shows a drawing of a bulky crocodile, scaled body bent in an S, its jaws under the man’s thumb. He picks it up, examines it. Murray thinks it odd that he doesn’t flip it over to read the blurb. He walks around the whole room once, scanning the shelves, reaches Murray at the counter and puts the book down between them. Murray picks it up, turns it over, looking for a price. It’s stuck on the back in faded ink. He opens his mouth to tell the man how much, and finds him staring intently at the ceiling. Murray looks up too. A hairline crack runs along the surface and there are bulges in the plaster where the wooden framework’s swollen. It’s lower than Murray remembers. He thinks that if he stood on his toes he could reach it with the tips of his fingers. Murray looks down again to find the man staring at him. Caught out, Murray mutters the price, says, ‘You don’t have it in exact change, do you?’ The man nods, fumbles around in his pocket for a bit and brings out a note, which he lays at an angle along the bench top. He counts the coins in the palm of his hand. He makes a fist around the coins, brings his hand over the note and lets go. The coins fall, clinking, over the bench. One spins wildly, rolls past Murray’s arm and across the bench. Murray lets it fall. He recognises the man now; it is the act of release that triggers the memory, the fingers spread wide, the wrist bent, the black watch band. This is the man who threw the brick in the Springbok protest. Dead set. He looks up again, expecting to see the same sense of recognition in the man, but he is walking out of the shop. Murray follows him outside, leaving the door open and the money still on the counter. The man is walking right along St Paul’s Terrace. He tucks the book under his arm to cross Barry Parade, as though he might need both hands free to wave off the oncoming traffic. Murray stands on the other side of the road, unsure of what to do. When Murray came outside, he’d planned to hail the man, tell him he recognised him from the strike and was a fellow comrade. They give discounts to Communist Party members. Outside the shop, it strikes him that perhaps the man is not one of them at all. Just because he was at the march doesn’t make him a communist. Despite the unpopularity of the cause —‘It’s just fucking football,’ one of Murray’s friends had said. ‘What’s it got to do with anything?’— there had been many types there, a mixture of labour party members; unionists; people in the Radical Club and the Eureka Youth League; those not particularly attached to anyone. He remembers again the brick shattered on the ground. It hadn’t hit anyone, but was an incitement to violence. This man is dangerous. Murray is filled again with nervous energy, which leaves him both dull-witted and super-charged, as though he is a wind-up toy twisted tight and then released, unable to do anything but move in the direction he’s facing. He crosses the road about five metres behind the man, sticks to the outer edge of the pavement, head down. If he moves his eyes upwards, while still keeping his neck lowered, he can see the shoes of the man, his white socks flashing with each step. The man turns the corner into Brunswick Street. He stops at a car parked in front of the old Masonic Temple. Murray walks past fast, unsure of what to do next. The Temple’s entry is set back in the building, four steps leading up to a red door. Murray ducks inside the alcove, looks up to see the man sitting in the driver’s seat pulling out the pages of Crocodile Hunt and feeding them through the half wound-down window where they land, fanned out, on the road. When he’s finished dismembering the book, the man spreads the page-less cover across the back of the car. The crocodile, snout on the side, one eye turned outwards, stares out into the street. The man flicks the ignition and drives, the pages flying out and onto the road in his wake. Murray sits down on the steps of the guild and smokes. He isn’t exactly sure what just happened. The man must have bought the book just because he liked the picture on the front of the cover. But it’s odd though that he had bothered to spend so much just for one picture. Murray remembers how he had paced the shop and studiously examined the ceiling. He’d given the impression of someone picking out furniture for the room, working out the dimensions so some chair or table would fit. A cough. Murray looks up. The man’s standing above him, his forearm resting on the wall, elbow bent. His other arm hangs at his side, hand bunched up around a bundle of keys. ‘I wouldn’t of bothered following me, if I was you,’ the man says. ‘The police are on my side. Special branch are on my side.’ He pushes himself off the wall, stands up straight, and says, ‘Heil Hitler.’ Tuesday April 19, 1972, 291 St Paul’s Terrace Murray brings his curled fist down on the door. It opens with the force of his knock and he feels like an idiot for even bothering. The hallway’s dark. Murray runs into a filing cabinet, swears, and stands in the centre of the corridor, with his hand still on the cabinet, calling, ‘Roger! Roger!’ Murray told Roger he’d come here when he called him. Murray was walking back from uni, and on the other side of the road to his house, ready to cross, he saw there was someone standing underneath the house, looking out into the street. Murray didn’t stop. He didn’t need to. He knew it was the man from the bookshop, the Nazi. Murray kept walking until he reached the end of the street, turned the corner and then ran. Back on campus, he shut himself in a phone box and dialed Roger’s number. ‘I can’t get to my house,’ Murray said when Roger picked up. ‘Lock yourself out, did you?’ said Roger. ‘You know that Nazi? He’s back again.’ ‘I don’t get it,’ said Roger. ‘It doesn’t matter. I need to stay with you,’ said Murray. ‘You can’t. I’m going to a party meeting.’ ‘I’ll meet you there.’ ‘Ok. If you want.’ Roger hung up. Now, Roger stands framed in the doorway of the meeting room. ‘Hey Murray, shut up. I can hear you. Get in here.’ Roger switches on the hallway light and Murray walks into the meeting room. There are about seven people, sitting on hard metal chairs around a long table. Murray sits next to Roger, nods to Patsy, who has nice breasts but is married. Vince says, ‘Hi, Murray, we’re talking about the moratorium on Friday.’ ‘You should bring your pretty little Vietnamese girl,’ says Billy. ‘She’s not around anymore,’ says Roger. ‘That’s a shame,’ says Patsy. ‘Yeah,’ says Murray. ‘Helen Dashwood told me her school has banned them from wearing moratorium badges,’ says Billy. ‘Far out,’ says Patsy. ‘We should get her to speak at the rally,’ says Stella, taking notes, and then, looking up, says, ‘Can anyone smell burning?’ Murray sniffs, says ‘I’ll go look.’ They all follow him down the hall. Patsy says, behind him, ‘Is it coming from the kitchen?’ Roger says, ‘No,’ and then the windows around them shatter. Next to Murray, a filing cabinet buckles and twists like wet cardboard in the rain. A door is blown off its hinges. Murray feels a moment of great confusion, a sense that things are sliding away from him spectacularly. He’s felt this once before. He wanted Lan to sit down with him, but she said she didn’t want to be touched. He’d pulled her to him, playfully, a joke, but he was too hard and she went limp in his hands. Like she’d been expecting it. Her head hit the table in front of him with a sharp, quick crack. He didn’t understand what happened; he had never experienced violence this close. He imagined her brain as a line drawing with the different sections coloured in, like his Psych friend had once showed him, except squashed in at the bottom. She had recovered, of course, opened her eyes a second later to him gasping. He remembered saying, ‘I just want to hold you. Why do you always do this to me?’ and even to him it hadn’t made sense because he was the one doing it to her. Afterwards, Murray had felt hungry, but couldn’t think of anything that he’d wanted to eat. He sliced an apple in half, traced the star of seeds with his finger, then decided he didn’t want it. He left it, already turning brown, on the kitchen bench. Author’s Note No one was killed in the April 19 explosion, nor did the roof fall in. The bookstore, kitchen and press on the first floor of 291 took the force of the blast (Evans and Ferrier). The same night, a man called The Courier Mail (1) saying he was a member of a right wing group and had just bombed the Brisbane Communist Party Headquarters. He threatened to bomb more on Friday if members attended the anti-Vietnam war moratorium that day. He ended his conversation with ‘Heil Hitler.’ Gary Mangan, a known Nazi party member, later confessed to the bombing. He was taken to court, but the Judge ruled that the body of evidence was inadmissible, citing a legal technicality. Mangan was not charged.Ian Curr, in his article, Radical Books in Brisbane, publishes an image of the Communist party quarters in Brisbane. The image, entitled ‘After the Bomb, April 19 1972,’ shows detectives interviewing those who were in the building at the time. One man, with his back to the camera, is unidentified. I imagined this unknown man, in thongs with the long hair, to be Murray. It is in these gaps in historical knowledge that the writer of fiction is free to imagine. References “Bomb in the Valley, Then City Shots.” The Courier Mail 20 Apr. 1972: 1. Curr, Ian. Radical Books in Brisbane. 2008. 24 Jun. 2011 < http://workersbushtelegraph.com.au/2008/07/18/radical-books-in-brisbane/ >. Evans, Raymond, and Carole Ferrier. Radical Brisbane: An Unruly History. Brisbane: Vulgar Press, 2004.

Orientador: Rafael Zadorosny
Resumo: Neste trabalho é apresentada a produção de condutores revestidos de material supercondutor (superconducting coated conductors – SCC), ou seja, um filme supercondutor cerâmico, obtido por impressão direta da solução precursora sobre um substrato. Este processo foi estudado com o intuito de aplicar uma técnica de fabricação simples e de baixo custo visando a obtenção de filmes de boa qualidade a um custo reduzido. As soluções precursoras de CeO2, BSCCO e YBCO foram obtidas pelo método Pechini, considerada uma rota de produção de baixo custo. A fim de comparar a impressão direta com outra técnica, foram produzidos os mesmos filmes por spin coating. Para se obter os SCC, foi adicionada Ag às soluções dos materiais cerâmicos verificando sua incorporação na estrutura do filme e não apenas como um material de revestimento (como ocorre com as fitas supercondutoras de segunda geração). As caracterizações morfológicas e estruturais foram realizadas para identificar e analisar o processo de impressão direta do SCC. Já o comportamento supercondutor do material foi verificado através de medidas de R x T.
Abstract: This work presents the production of superconducting coated conductors (SCC), that is, a superconducting ceramic film obtained by direct printing of the precursor solution on a substrate. This process was studied with the intention of applying a simple and low cost technique focusing in the obtaining of good quality films at a reduced cost. The precursor solutions of CeO2, BSCCO and YBCO were obtained by the Pechini method, also considered a low cost production route. In order to compare direct printing with another technique, the same films were produced by spin coating. In order to obtain the SCC's, Ag was added to the solutions of the ceramic materials to incorporate in the film structure and not just as a coating material (as with second-generation superconducting tapes). Morphological and structural characterizations were performed to identify and analyze the SCC obtained by direct printing process. The superconductive behavior of the material was verified by measurements of R x T.
Doutor

Tampa: Impressions of an Emigrant is a translation of Tampa: impresiones de emigrante written by Cuban author Wenceslao Gálvez y Delmonte, published in 1897 in Ybor City, Tampa, Florida, translated from the Spanish by Noel M. Smith. Gálvez was an early diaspora writer in the costumbrismo genre, which emphasized the depiction of everyday manners and customs of a particular social milieu. Gálvez emigrated from Havana in 1896 to escape the Cuban War of Independence and join the Cuban exile community in Tampa. Gálvez was a champion baseball player in the earliest years of Cuban baseball, a lawyer/prosecutor/judge, and journalist/author. His charming and opinionated first-person narrative is in four parts. Part 1 begins with the escalation of the Spanish war effort that prompted his sea voyage to Tampa, followed by part 2 and descriptions of Tampa’s people and activities, geography, landmarks, municipal features, and cultural pursuits. Parts 3 and 4 extensively discuss many aspects of the Cuban exile community in Ybor City and West Tampa, including the patriotic pro-independence fervor that gripped the emigrants. He names notable personages in the exile community and describes their efforts to support the war against Spain and recounts his struggles working as a door-to-door salesman and as a lector (reader) in a cigar factory. Thirty historical photographs and newspaper clippings illuminate the text.

Powerful methods for catalytic, enantioselective intermolecular Diels-Alder reactions have been developed. Ben L. Feringa and Gerard Roelfes of the University of Groningen have shown (Organic Lett. 2007, 9, 3647) that a catalyst prepared by combining salmon testes DNA with a Cu complex directed the absolute sense of the addition of 1 to cyclopentadiene 2 . Mukund P. Sibi of North Dakota State University has reported (J. Am. Chem. Soc . 2007, 129 , 395) related work with achiral pyrazolidinone dienophiles and chiral Cu catalysts. Tohru Fukuyama of the University of Tokyo found (Angew. Chem. Int. Ed . 2007, 46, 5734) that the MacMillan catalyst 5 was effective at mediating the addition of acrolein 4 to the pyridine-derived diene 3, enabling an enantioselective synthesis of the prominent antiviral (-)-oseltamivir (tamiflu) 7. Hisashi Yamamoto of the University of Chicago has demonstrated (J. Am. Chem. Soc . 2007, 129, 9534 and 9536) that the novel catalyst 10 effected addition of methyl acrylate 9 to the diene 8, leading to an elegant enantioselective synthesis of the tetracycle 12, the key intermediate in the Nicolaou synthesis of platensimycin. New illustrations of the power of the intramolecular Diels-Alder reaction have been put forward. Demonstrating the influence of a single subsituent on the tether, William R. Roush of Scripps/Florida found (Organic Lett . 2007, 9, 2243) that cyclization of 13 led to the diastereomer 14, complementary to the result observed with an acyclic triene. Ryo Shintani and Tamio Hayashi of Kyoto University have extended (Angew. Chem. Int. Ed . 2007, 46, 7277) their studies of chiral diene-based Rh catalysts to the enantioselective cyclization of alkynyl dienes such as 16. Jonathan W. Burton of the University of Oxford and Andrew B. Holmes of the University of Melbourne employed (Chem. Commun . 2007, 3954) the MacMillan catalyst 5 for the cyclization of 18 to 19. It is impressive that ent- 5 catalyzed the cyclization of 18 cleanly into the diastereomer of 19 in which both of the newly-created stereogenic centers were inverted.

Some of us believe that experts know better than we do. And some of us believe “it ain’t necessarily so.” Ideally, we all have expertise with our subjects. We have stud­ied long and hard, and we continue to pursue professional devel­opment opportunities, wanting to get better and know more. Likewise, in the context of classrooms, we know our students better than nearly anyone. It is important to embrace the knowl­edge that we are the experts in our classrooms with our own students. Often, professionals attain the designation of expert through wide and varied exposure: publications, presentations, and edu­cational materials. All these avenues of visibility are impressive accomplishments and show dedication to the topic. Then why would we need to beware of experts? Experts, even self- appointed ones, tend to hold tightly to the ideas that earned them their stature. But that devotion to ideas can come at the expense of flexibility, necessary modification, and appropriate adaptability. What do we do when expert rec­ommendations do not match our knowledge of the needs of our students and schools? This can be a gnarly dilemma for sure. The vitality and wisdom of our own understandings can be tamped down when we are told to substitute expert opinion for our own. And what do we do when experts change their minds? How are teachers informed of the new adaptations or the faulty logic of the required program? Good ideas can go awry. Good ideas are rarely a panacea. Caution about wholeheartedly adopting expert recommenda­tions is based in the reality that we are the ones most knowl­edgeable about our classrooms, schools, and communities. When we pair informed caution with fervent searches for best practices, we place expert opinion where it belongs. We vigor­ously pursue the best for our students, whether that best comes from us or expert opinion. Seek expert opinion. Watch for wisdom. Weigh the viability for your students, in your classes, at your school. Self- determination implies that we have choice- making skills that allow us to consider similar and disparate points of view and that we assume responsibility for the choices we are making.

A cor e a temperatura dos grãos de café são duas variáveis muito importantes de serem monitoradas para avaliar o grau de torra do mesmo, durante uma torrefação. No entanto, os torradores comerciais atuais não possuem sistema de monitoramento dessas variáveis em tempo real. Nesse sentido, este trabalho propõem um sistemas de medição de cor de grãos de café e um sistema supervisório para monitoramento das temperaturas envolvidas durante o processo. Este sistema foi projetado para operação em torradores de tambor rotativo horizontal. Para tal, foi construído um sistema de visão computacional e dois termopares tipo k foram posicionados de forma apropriada no interior do torrador. O sistema de visão é composto por uma estrutura obtida por meio de impressão 3D que sustenta e direciona uma câmera digital de baixo custo (Webcam USB) e um sistema de iluminação para capturar imagens (formato RGB) de grãos no torrador. Os termopares foram conectados à um chassi NI CompactDAQ USB, para condicionar e converter o sinal analógico para digital. Todos os elementos, câmera e chassi, foram conectados em um computador pessoal e um programa desenvolvido em LabVIEW foi utilizado para adquirir imagens e temperaturas e fazer os processamentos necessários. Cada imagem foi adquirida a frequência de 2 Hz e, posteriormente, segmentada e analisada de forma que a cor dos grãos seja fornecida na escala AGTRON, muito utilizada em processos de torrefação. As temperaturas foram adquiridas a uma frequência de 3 Hz e, a partir de uma interface gráfica implementada, os valores de cor e temperatura são apresentados ao usuário em tempo real. O sistema aqui projetado mostrou-se adequado para o monitoramento das temperaturas e cor em tempo real, durante a torrefação.