Sometimes it’s a good idea to have someone keeping an eye on you.
One of a 24-hour staff of nurses, maybe. Like, if you’ve suffered a catastrophic brain injury and don’t know that if you try to get out of bed to go to the bathroom your whole left side will give way and you’ll fall terrifyingly onto your wardmate – Hi, mom!
I guess a couple of the questions that Ghost in the Shell – the subject of last week’s post – raises are What does it mean to be human? What does it mean to be alive? And inadvertently, What does it take to turn a squat-dwelling anarchist into a willing super-weapon for a government that used her as a disposable lab experiment?
Long-suffering readers of the blog may recall that I’m interested in what it means to be alive….
It’s been over two years since the last stroke news digest on apoplectic.me. Which must mean something, I suppose. But yesterday, I was revisiting some old posts from the January immediately following Strokefest 2012, and strokes have been all over the news during the past week. So I thought today might be a good time to reclaim my Stroke Bloke identity.
It has never been hard to tell the difference between a Scotsman with a grievance and a ray of sunshine, PG Wodehouse once wrote. And today, as the Scottish Parliament debates the merits of approaching Westminster regarding another Independence referendum and just under half of the MSPs grumble about the Scottish Government manufacturing grievances, maybe it’s time to change the stereotype?
Hi! I think I’m going to change apoplectic.me’s regular posting day to Tuesday.
Over the weekend, there are weekend things to do, and then by Monday all the other things to do have built up and there are regular weekday things to do and I want to do all the things because if I don’t do all the things the to-do list will just get longer and longer for ever and ever amen.
Long-suffering readers of the blog will know that I’m more than a little obsessed with time and how it works and how it’s expressed. If time is more elastic and less concrete than we imagine – and it is – then that would just about explain Sunday’s Superbowl LI.
A search of apoplectic.me for the word “memory” comes up with 50 hits – almost a quarter of the posts on the blog. Hardly surprising, when one thinks that in the weeks following The Event, I couldn’t remember my age, where I was, who the person in the chair next to my hospital bed was, or whether or not I was the Vice President of the United States.
Eventually, memories come back. Even now, Beth notices that my memories of thirty or more years ago seem to be more readily accessible than those from this week. Maybe you find the same thing. Continue reading My Name is Joe – Pt. 1→
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.