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Q: How to add variable pane in intelliJ? Does anyone know how to add the variable pane in intelliJ? I closed it by accident I cant find how to re-open it.
This is were it used to be but now I only have the "watches":

A:
Click on the restore layout icon to see watch pane /variable pane and call stack pane.

A: I do this every now and then, and it always takes me way too long to get it back...see the stack-looking icon toward the top-right corner, under the icon next to settings? That should do it for you.


The velocity of solitude leers; half past fifteen, I lie on the floor listening to a song in a language I will never learn, hungry and hoping for a phone call, all skinny legs and split ends and adults telling me I don't know what it's like to be tired but my hair comes out in clumps and my glasses aren't clean.
I claw upon worn paperbacks elegizing war, crumple six sestinas to prime numbers into the wastebasket. The geometry teacher knows I do not pay attention. He has hands like hospital cutlery. I paint my eyes like the Meyer's-Briggs ; candy cigarettes erode in the camera case I keep triple-knotted around my wrist. I celebrate the alarming ubiquity of being unbeautiful in a training bra and bobby socks.
Rain taps the window, a teacher's tenuous tick, and I unlearn my father's reprise on girls who snap their gum and pop their knuckles. He thinks my chipping red nail polish trampy. When I get home, I add two extra coats. Three weeks after, he calls my favorite actress fat. I ghost across the garage, grab his keys, sink them into the clay surrounding my creaking swing set. He forages for them for four months. I forget I began loving him after I learned the names of all nine planets. He still seems to be made of dry ice and the distance formula.
Seventy-six pounds of glitter and syncope, I hold down a 3.5 gpa and throw up my lunch during third period. I am an elegy to the American Dream, hiding my arms inside of a jacket Ginvera outgrew in the third grade. She is two years too young for a freshman. No matter how hard I try, I cannot hate her. She stuffs her bra, swallows her gum, buys my friends Odyssey Essay for fifty dollars, and, like any sort of little sister, fears the dark by default. I read to her from her father's battered copy of A Brief History of Time; she teaches me forty-seven Korean phrases. I forget them all in the morning. Nobody sees something omniscient as infantile amnesia as sad.
I sip cold coffee from a paper cup throughout creative writing, tear a tissue into even strips. The girl across from me has hair the color of conversation hearts, eyes like inkblots. Her stories involve televangelists and child protective services; mine ellipse between coal towns and cough syrup with codeine. We admire each other. Little loneliness is like ours.
I spend most of digital photography class starting at my hands, static as street art. I take snapshots of the science fiction section in the library, close-ups of the tile grout in the girl's bathroom, the chipped blue cup of crumbling oyster crackers at the art student's coffee station. Kate and I skip the Photoshop element of the course, mispronounce the names of household objects in Japanese. She slouches taller than sidelights and footnotes combined. We listen to loud music and quiet tête–à–têtes between teachers. Nobody, not even the storms, has such subtle hands. The smaller that I get, the larger the city where the school slumps seems. Folded into the backseat of my father's car like a cinema ticket stub, I need to describe the noisiness of my nightmares, but my sister just sleeps in the passenger seat and doesn't appreciate these things.
Laura Ingram is a tiny girl with large glasses. Her work has been previously published in Gravel Magazine, Jet Fuel Review, The Cactus Heart Review, Life in 10 Minutes, Canvas Lit, Forrest for the Trees, Tallow Elder Quarterly, The Noisy Island, The Crucible, If and Only If, Assonance Lit, Juked Literary Journal, Allergo Poetry, and few others she's always bound to forget. Laura is 18 years old. She enjoys most books and all cats.


Something about old houses evokes a sense of terrible majesty and loneliness. They tell a story of lost joy, forgotten love and the fleeting frailty of human life. Lives are lived, passed on and forgotten as new families write their own history within their walls, ignorant of the trials and tribulations of previous occupants.
I am from a small town in the South where life is simple and rent is cheap. My town shows the faded splendor of an opulence that has not graced these parts for well over a century. Amid the low-slung Spanish Moss and an ever-encroaching sea of pollen-filled foliage, lay monuments of a prosperous past where jobs were plentiful and cotton was king. The stately mansions and homes of long ago share the narrow streets with burned out shacks and a culture of disposable materialism gripped in poverty.
For a while, my momma and I lived on one of these streets, in an old two-story white house with tin panels from a previous age that somehow was available for a tiny family on government sustenance. It was an odd home. The bedrooms, living areas and bathrooms were thrown together in a hodgepodge menagerie that comes from being added to from necessity to satisfy the needs of a moment. This was our moment.
No one spoke of ghosts, hauntings or unsettled spirits—this was just a peculiar old house whose boards and foundations groaned amid the diverse and ever-changing weather conditions of the South. Momma worked late at the hospital in town, leaving me most days to walk home from school and care for myself. My room was in the center of the house near what had once been a central staircase. The nearest neighbors lived a quarter-mile down the road, and there were no street lights. The area was heavily wooded and was dark even on the brightest days.
One night I was reading The Stand by Stephen King in my room. Momma was working the night shift. I don't know if I was freaked out by what I was reading, but the house made a hollow groaning that wasn't typical for the old place. I looked quickly about my room. Nothing out of place. I opened my door to the hallway beyond and gingerly looked out. It was dark, like it normally was. I clicked the switch for lights in the hallway. Nothing. Fabulous. I carefully stepped into the black hallway, stretching out my arm to feel the wall as a guide, and headed in the direction of the stairs. My fingers felt every notch, indent and splinter in the old planked walls as I inched my way down the darkened hall.
Just past my mother's room, I turned right to head to the stair. A large casement window let in some of the muted moonlight. I was able to step away from the wall and start making my way down to the first floor. That's when I saw her.
She seemed like more of a shadow, but as I drew closer down the stairs, I made out the clear form of a young girl, roughly my age. We hadn't expected visitors for the night, and certainly no one would just drop by our house. "Hello," I called out. The girl remained silent, facing away from me towards the entryway to the house. I was starting to get a little weirded out. "Do you need something? My momma ain't home right now…" At the word 'Momma,' the girl turned. To this day, I have never forgotten her face, or perhaps the lack thereof. There were some features that might have been an eye or a mouth, but they were more similar to melted ice cream draped in light strands of wispy hair.
At the sight, I stopped and started trying to walk backwards up the stairs. I initially tripped. Pulling myself up, I screamed. The thing started climbing the stair after me. I turned and sprinted into the darkness of the hallway, stumbling on the carpet runner. The fifteen-some feet of hall felt like it stretched for a block. But I kept running until I found the door to my room, ran in, and slammed it behind me. I was still sitting with my back barricading the door when my momma got home some time that night. All these years later, I still have nightmares of that girl.


text:
All sciency and stuff
AustenX
SkeletonX
Flappy
Squint2.0
Munky
Pal1.5
Old Amiga Games
Stomper Remake
Bombgame
Choo Choo
2 January 2015 Version 0.9 of SkeletonX available
30 December 2014 Version 0.9 of Renoir available
29 October 2014 Version 1.1 of AustenX available
27 October 2014 Version 1.2 of Flappy available
Follow Scratchy Labs on Twitter for more info - @scratchylabs
Here at Scratchy, we've been working on a number of exciting projects, that are specifically designed to make your life easier. We lead the way in the scientific study of what we do, so rest assured, if it can happen, it will.
Projects to look out for include Austen, the parser generator of a new generation, and Skeleton, the code generator that generates code generators and is the code-generator code generator of a new generation. At some point also, there will be: a new version of Squint, the sequence alignment editor no one is talking about; Flappy, a mediocre emulator of Commodore 8-bit computers; Jackson, an awesome tool for creating animated pick-a-path stories; and Munky, a very cool new programming language for creating websites (that generates HTML, CSS, SQL, PHP, and Javascript from a single unified language).
Also, and finally, please look forward to the future as we push the cutting edge envelope, and publish a number of other, smaller projects, as often, in the name of quality, and dedication to craftsmanship, we will just dump the source code for things that we started, but have never actually finished.
It's service with a shine, because the knowledge economy demands innovators in the field of technological advancement.
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Scratchy Labs is a non-profit (currently non-revenue) organisation, run by someone who would love to devote more time to writing awesome open-source software, and publishing papers at some point, but the need to get income gets in the way. If the research on offer inspires you, help Scratchy Labs by donating, even a little. (Seriously, I'm doing this in my spare time).
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redpajama_set_name: RedPajamaCommonCrawl


text:
Dr Ian Foster receives thanks from Marcus Harris
Effects of climate/weather on agriculture in WA
Dr Foster has considerable experience working on weather and climate. He graduated with an honours degree from the School of Environmental Science, Murdoch University at the end of 1979. He then completed his PhD studying the Development of Tropical Cyclones in Northwest Australia in 1987. Ian has been a climatologist at DPIRD since 1989 where his main responsibilities are reporting and forecasting season conditions. To do this, he works closely with the Bureau of Meteorology and WA water and fire management agencies.
Ian commenced his presentation with an overview of the systems influencing weather in WA. The Indian Ocean Dipole affects the climate in WA more than the El Nino and El Nina which tend to influence the East Coast more. The weather is affected by fronts rising mainly from the SW, tropical cyclones, cut-off lows, west coast trough, blocking highs, Southern Annular Mode and cloudbands. These all affect the amount of rain, heat waves and cloud cover which in turn affect agricultural production. Crops need a good amount of soil moisture, nutrients, sunlight, warmth, carbon dioxide and oxygen to grow well. Low or high temperatures and poor pasture growth also affect animal production.
Since the mid 1970's the annual rainfall in the SW of WA has declined by up to 20%. This declining rainfall has resulted in a general shift in rainfall zones (isohyets) to the west effectively decreasing the potential for good rains in all areas, particularly the eastern wheatbelt. Despite this, grain yields have been steadily increasing in WA. This is due to improved agronomic practices and the release of better adapted crop varieties. Improved practices include the adoption of no-till agriculture (conserving available soil moisture) an expansion of field size (decreasing the percentage of non-cropped land) and improved weather predictions (allowing farmers to prepare for the season better).
The future of agricultural production in WA faces a number of dangers. It is predicted, that rainfall in the SW of WA will continue to drop, mean temperatures will increase and the frequency of extreme temperature events will increase. These will all adversely affect agricultural production.
Temperature projections are dependent on CO2 levels. Dr Foster showed how world CO2 concentrations were approximately 300ppm for the past 2,000 years but over the past 100 years have jumped to over 400ppm. There is a relationship of increasing earth temperatures with increasing CO2 (hence the term climate change).
No parts of Southern WA are predicted to receive more rainfall with climate change. Just as importantly, an increase in temperatures and extreme temperature events will dramatically decrease potential crop production. Yield decreases are expected in most locations in WA. Winter and spring are expected to be drier. Dry conditions during these cold season means there will be more frosts damaging both crops and animals. Dry conditions also lead to a greater fire risk. Some crop losses will be compensated by atmospheric increases in CO2 levels due to improved photosynthesis and improved water efficiency.
Author: Harry Nesbitt


The budget airline was responsible for shuttling 30 percent of the country's tourists last year. Its closing will irrevocably change how we get there—and that might be a good thing.
This is the trailer for 'A Land Shaped by Women,' which explores gender equality in Iceland.
'Elements Iceland' features a group of friends on a bikepacking trip through Iceland.
No Man's Land from filmmaker Davide Calafà documents a six-day backpacking journey through Iceland.