In explaining the origins of May Day, Ian comes up with all sort of specifics, but kind of slides over the idea that – as Longsufferingreaderoftheblogpaul wrote in a comment to a particularly off-the-wall post – time is social. Harvests. Day and night. Diurnal clocks. Biorhythms and cycles. All that mushy wetware bio stuff I never learned but is real.
Cornwall in England definitely gets into that side of things:
[On May Day,] Padstow holds its annual Hobby Horse day of festivities, believed to be one of the oldest fertility rites in the UK.
Interested in Nerd Bait? Before digging into this week’s post, find out how The Wee Mermannie got the girl – deleted scenes from our Book Festival Gig are part of the bonus materials included in the first issue of the fabulous FREAK Circus!
The beautiful paperback artefact is here. The electronic version that includes the unexpurgated prose version of The Tail of The Wee Mermannie is here.
Right. Now. Back to the blog.
Last Monday, I noted neuroscientist David Eagleman’s remark that the idea that we are unitary people over time is merely an illusion of continuity.
The people each of us individually are at 10, 30, 40, “share the same name and some of the same memories, but we are quite different as a person.”
During the intervening week, I wrote a short story about a man who may – or may not – have lived a succession of quite different lives. Yet there are common themes in those lives. For example, in each case, the character’s father disappears from the scene in his early years.
It wasn’t until I was reading a passage in Robert Penn Warren’s Pulitzer-prize winning novel All the King’s Men last night that I realised that my fiction had been taking a sideways look at Eagleman’s theme…. Continue reading To a Tee→
Our host, the partner of ein Autobahnkind, throws the Mercedes people-carrier into bends that lead us to Highgate. Looking out the windows, I want to tweet to every Scot who ever said, “I can’t be doing with London,” and fill 140 characters with wide arboretums and bilingual Eurostar stations and urban parklands and Japanese supermarkets and treetop walks.
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I met up with my attorney on the street in TriBeCa the other day.
“Did you get a new haircut? I thought so. You’d fit right in here, or in the West Village.”
It’s noticeable that the people most likely to pigeon-hole this middle-aged Scottish man as a hipster (even if he didn’t use the actual epithet) are solicitous recreational therapists and lawyers from Long Island. Clearly, I’m more square than hip.
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As I walk across the tarmac, Copenhagen Airport’s Terminal 3 stretches before me and away from me. As its location requires, it’s the height of good taste in modern design, all low-slung glass and steel. Inside, it looks like an airport in a world capital of design should — like a 23rd century version of Monet’s Gare Saint-Lazare.