Jay 🦋

@jay.bsky.team

595311 Followers 3967 Following

Founder & Chief Innovation Officer @ Bluesky Working on @attie.ai 🌱 🪴 🌳

collectively written gnome story on typewriter
Girls putting last year’s wreaths into the bonfire
beautifully bound books
wisteria tree
window covered in books
cat on chair
pink rose
tree of life art
fern bracelet
willie examining his pinecones
black lab with mouth full of pinecones
riddles wisely expounded
The traditional tunes of the child ballads book
cherry blossoms
tree pattern electrical box
common robot, bauble
photo of taipei on surf social
my neopet. named raphelix
common robot bauble
432,101 Mossy Active Users
just a lil guy
cherry blossom vancouver magnet
pink cherry blossoms
sunny day view of water and city
Designing interfaces for third-party algorithm selection: We’re developing a feed selection system that enables users to explore third-party feeds and access them as effortlessly as their home timeline. For developers, an open marketplace of algorithms will provide the freedom to experiment with and publish algorithms that anyone can use. Recent advances in machine learning will make it easy and exciting to experiment with new ways of structuring content.
Attie control panel showing what sources it's drawing from for my feed
Moss, Ballads, & Green Lore feed Pictures of moss, posts about medieval ballads and folk songs, and deep lore about trees, herbs, and plants — a feed for those who feel most at home in enchanted forests and ancient libraries.
Attie creating a feed based on my prompt: "pictures of moss, posts about medieval ballads, deep lore about trees, herbs, and plants"
Attie's built-in feedback agent - access it to the right side of the feed creation button
Mephistopheles All theory, my friend, is grey, But green is life’s golden tree.
atmosphere conf sign
four leaf clover in my hand
black alder by water
wisteria in bloom
moss on trees
Why, when this short span of being could be spent like the laurel, a little darker than all the other green, the edge of each leaf fluted with small waves (like the wind’s smile) — why, then, do we have to be human and, avoiding fate, long for fate?         Oh, not because happiness, that quick profit of impending loss, really exists. Not out of curiosity, not just to exercise the heart — that could be in the laurel, too . . . But because being here means so much, and because all that’s here, vanishing so quickly, seems to need us and strangely concerns us. Us, to the first to vanish. Once each, only once. Once and no more. And us too, once. Never again. But to have been once, even if only once, to have been on earth just once — that’s irrevocable. And so we keep on going and try to realize it, try to hold it in our simple hands, in our overcrowded eyes, and in our speechless heart. Try to become it. To give it to whom? We’d rather keep all of it forever . . . Ah, but what can we take across into that other realm? Not the power to see we’ve learned​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​
small christmas tree
candle on wood
funeral for the penny - rest in peace penny 1793-2025
Turkey
vintage cloves box
shaggy mane mushroom
colorful leaves on ground
dril candles post
candles shaped like carrot and asparagus
weird bouquet looks like tomatoes
better looking mooncake
touching moss
sad looking mooncake on plate
To Come Home To Yourself May all that is unforgiven in you Be released. May your fears yield Their deepest tranquilities. May all that is unlived in you Blossom into a future Graced with love.
gift bag with pink and purple butterflies
DEC/ACC decentralization acceleration network graph showing nodes spinning out from a central hub, on green background
Waffle with berries & powdered sugar on floral plate
Jane Goodall with monarch butterfly scarf
Candle that says “Folklore: The Storyteller Sparks from fire and memory, rising woodsmoke in the dark, charred cedar, and glowing amber”
“Isn’t it plain the sheets of moss, except that they have no tongues, could lecture all day if they wanted about spiritual patience? Isn’t it clear the black oaks along the path are standing as though they were the most fragile of flowers? Every morning I walk like this around the pond, thinking: if the doors of my heart ever close, I am as good as dead. Every morning, so far, I’m alive. And now the crows break off from the rest of the darkness and burst up into the sky — as though all night they had thought of what they would like their lives to be, and imagined their strong, thick wings.” Excerpt From Dream Work Mary Oliver