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Reflections 2018 w01

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I have just watched a film about a man that got cryogenically frozen and reanimated, well, about 25%, the rest was grown from DNA samples and mechanical adaptions. At one point they brought in a machine that recorded memories, overall the film has been interesting, and the growing of a new body that works symbiotically with a machine does seem realistic, it is half available now. But I have an issue with the cryogenics. That issue is all about memory.

Whenever the subject is approached upon the screen the struggleis all about the reanimation of flesh. Growing a new body covers that subject, except for the brain. This is most commonly just implanted, and away the person goes, memories and all.

This, in my mind, then places the brain as a organic hard drive, in as such the memories are just stored in a segment to be accessed when needed. In principle that is acceptable, when the brain is alive, and I have yet to hear about how it does the storing. I have heard how this memory gets this part of the brain working and that memory the other, but the actual storage and the management of that ‘data’, I don’t think we know yet.

If we don’t know how it is stored whilst the brain is working, how then do we get it to work after the electrical impulses have stopped? Can a persons memories be stimulated after death now, whilst experiments on the brain are being done?

On a side note, could your memories be used as evidence in court after death if the process to read these memories is ever found?

Also, the brain is organic and as such their is, even in cryogenic status, a decay of the matter. Effectively creating bad sectors on the ‘hard drive’, and with the lights turned off, there is no disc management available. One bit of damage, in the wrong place, and the disc drive won’t work, you don’t know until the booting up sequence.

So then, the recording of the memories will be the answer for immortality – grow a new body, transfer the memories over.

Lets say that the essence of a person is the unique data processing and logical algorithms for a particular outcome. And our emotions are just a chemical response to that processing conclusion. Both of which could be replicated. 

Could you then be completely be replaced by a fresh new you?

But if a person is just what is in their head, a steady stream of data. Why do we need to bother within the body?

And could multiple copies of a single identity be made?

And what would it be truly be like waking up in a new body? Or even one that may not even be your own, even if it is the one you asked for?

I don’t believe in a soul. But I do believe that person is more than just memories and chemicals, and when we die ‘we’ die. Even if physically the person is brought back to life with all memories intact. The spark that made us – us is too unique to be replicated. Would you have then condemned yourself to an eternal prison upon being awakened?

I don’t think cryogenics is for me!

 

www.awanderthroughthemind.co.uk/the-blogs

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My First Writing Competition Entry

Carousel

The sun shined down on the sand of this little cove, seagulls screeched overhead, joyous chatter of children and adults alike mingled with gentle music piped from the carousel as it spun around. The smell of the sea, chips, popcorn and candy floss waft around the rides and stalls of chance. Fond are the memories from when I first arrived.
Now the music is of a blaring kind, each of the rides trying to compete with one another for the attention of the modern youth. The smells wafting around the stalls are still the same, but not – the chips don’t smell as good as they did and the aroma of overdone burgers has been added, along with the odour of sweaty onions; progress smells like grease. The games of chance have been changed to games of luck, tat replacing the goldfish that once did hang from the beams.
The rides themselves have changed from gentle, simple, fun rides for the family, to stomach churning thrills, their sole purpose to bring back up the burgers quickly scoffed before going on. Somehow I missed the transition, or maybe it happened that slowly I failed to notice, but in any case I did not see it till I was old.
Age itself is not to blame for the outlook, it has changed. Greed has set into what was a business for family pleasure. The old rides pushed to the side, or replaced altogether.
One thing that has not changed with the passing of years, that is the season itself. Three quarters of the year the fair stays open, with the rides spinning and blasting out their music for most of the day and all of the evening. Then the holiday makers call it time, too cold, too wet, only the few dare to brave the coast in the latter months, or those of the winters end.
The fair takes on an eerie feel in the season known as closed, the sun oft hidden by huge black clouds, perhaps with the flash of light and rumble of thunder. Even the sea takes on a more menacing look, waves get bigger and carry the sand in the water, making their soul look dark, as they roll and crash against the shore. With these storms come sinister shadows, jumping from whence they hid with each flicker of light from the sky. I look upon them glad to be hidden under this big heavy canvas, sheltering from the whipping wind and driving rain. This is my home for the night, my refuge.
For many a year I have hidden here, out of mind, peaking through the hole in the canvas. My colours have faded, my paint chipped and now cracked; the rain runs like tears down my cheek.

 

I was pretty once, the star of the show.
With my piped music, small faces would glow.
But now I’m forgotten, cast to the side.
Oh how I would love it, once more, on me ride.

A§M

500 words, rather journalistic, Influenced by Bill Bryson? But it was a start. My next story written is more flowing and at 250 words was more of a challenge, it missed the deadline for the competition entry it was written for, so will be saved for another.

This is the start of many one thinks, clunky it may be, but one hopes it will inspire others to give writing competitions a go, especially free ones.

Just have fun.

Reflections…Week Fifty One

canstockphoto8630797This is the last blog of 2017, and for my part I have completed my goal of blogging on a weekly basis for the entirety of it. One has even surpassed what I thought was a challenge by doing multiple blogs in a week and in doing so surprised myself with the gusto one has approached it. But not so much with this one.

Yesterday I went sea fishing with my brother, it went less than planned. The tackle and bait shop we go to is no longer there, it is being replaced with flats, this caused a diversion to an alternative. Time seemed to be slipping away as the journey progressed, to the point that we changed destination for the fishing to suit the tide time.

This is a place I like going to and although the pier was in no fit state to be walked upon it somehow had sentimental value for which one cannot explain. However when we got there the pier was no longer in the sea, rather it was on the coast line piled up behind railings. After talking to a local fisherman we discovered it was pulled down for safety reasons about three weeks ago, thus making it a sombre visit, and at the moment un-fishable.  One hopes that the spider crabs that the locals catch won’t be negatively affected.

The weather was also making a turn for the worst, with an ice cold nip to the increasing wind. This was not the warm sunny day forecast.

We headed back the way we came. Checked out a new spot, ruled it out, went to an old spot that has been good for bass before ruled that out due to the exposure for the wind and decided to cross back over the peninsula to get some wind defence.

We looked and looked for a new spot and eventually ended up, at the place we originally went for bait, at Rhos-on-sea, sheltered from the wind. Halfway back home. Eight hours of driving to get an hour and a half away from home, you could tell my brother was not pleased.

Spot got to run on the beach for a bit, and we ate with a cuppa before even thinking about setting up, as high tide was another hour away, and by then we could not be bothered to be tide chased with our equipment. So we just waited.

This spot has been a poor show for fish before and we had almost given up on the location. It was chosen for the shelter above all else, just so we could fish.

It has been ages since last having a day out to try and catch dinner for the next day and as Spot and I played on the beach I asked the sea to be kind to my brother and let him catch some fish. It was less of a thing for me as being at the coast was allowing me to chill for just a little while, as the coast always does, and Spot loves the beach.

So as the tide came in we got ready, spot for a nice change, was able to stay in the car as it was parked right next to us, curled up in the footwell, where the heater had warmed her towel and the carpeting.

First cast had been in the water less than five minutes when my brothers rod stated to nod up and down violently, not one on the line, but two. Next cast he did was pulling a fish up within a minute, and the same again with the next.

As he took the fish down the steps to the water to release the fourth fish, they were undersize, I thanked the sea for visibly cheering him up. Then my rod started…

For the next Five and a half hours we had fish after fish, the best session ever, even beating some boat trips. True we returned over forty, but we came home with five whiting each, enough fish for a couple of meals.

My arms and shoulders at the end were aching, my nerves on fire and lacking strength to real in two small fish on the line that should have been done with ease. I had to stop with them as my arms went numb and the fireworks started in my legs. My brother called it time when he reeled in the next fish. We packed up and headed home, straight into the wind, and now heavy rain, we had earlier left behind. Somehow it had missed our little spot.

The concentration on the rod tip light now over, my body could release the headache for the trip home. Today I have been in pain and struggling to stay awake. I hate what is happening to my body right now and the way it seems to be punishing me for doing things I like to do. But it’s got another thing coming if it thinks it is going to make me stop. All the doctors want to do is increase what was my anxiety meds, as it is also a pain medication. It’s funny how I am going to be over the maximum dosage for the anxiety it’s not working for, because it is now for the pain. The pain it may very well be causing. And the medication I wanted to stop, because it’s not working.

The merry-go round of the doctors continues…

Oh, an update on my story that was entered into the Brighter Futures writing competition that was scheduled for America’s Thanksgiving day, that was then altered to the Christmas Party, that was then, I would say delayed again due to there still being only two entries, I would say delayed as the winner was not declared, Is a winner!

Not quite, so is the other one as well.

I wonder if my request to withdraw my story if it had been cancelled again, so it could be entered into another competition, had anything to do with the decision?

At least the disappointment of the whole affair is over now, and the story will be published in the next couple of days. I hope all who read it find some enjoyment in it.

If you don’t, tuff, I am still proud of my first writing competition entry.

The fireworks of the new year have been going off as this long winded entry has been written, so it is with love and peace that I sign off the Reflections of 2017.

Happy New Year!

 

www.awanderthroughthemind.co.uk/reflections-2017

Reflections…Week Fifty

canstockphoto8630797The presents are wrapped, finally. To say I have been putting it off would be an understatement. I don’t start wrapping presents till I have them all, and I only finished shopping this afternoon.

The last presents were not forgotten, and I was not waiting for a sale, I just was not able to get to the shop till today, and I reeeally did not want to go shopping today.

One thought it would be either dead, or rammed at the shop; I was hoping most would be too hungover to be there. Of course it was rammed, but not just by lonely men, wandering around aimlessly to grab their partners gift, mumbling to themselves about how there was nothing on the shelves suitable for a heartfelt gift for their loving partner. Instead it was just a normal shopping day for most, albeit a busy one.

Christmas lasts that long in the shops now it feels like it should have finished weeks ago, not instead, that it will shortly be time for little ones to wake, eagerly going to the tree to see what has been left there.

I know that whilst writing this, I have crossed the threshold of Christmas Day, but my mind is somehow rejecting the notion.

Maybe it’s the D&A mindset, but I think I have just been getting more and more numb to the event as it is dragged out over several months. I saw the last of the 2016 decorations in the shops for valentines day and the start this years stock in June/July. No other one day event has this long in the shops.

Even harder to imagine is that next week is the last of this years blogs! I set myself the goal to write the blogs for a year, every week, and I did it. The park blogs fell to the wayside when the poetry started, but that will be the target set for next year I think.

So this is me – writing my penultimate reflection blog for 2017 – wishing all who read this, a Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays, or whatever you want to call it; I’m not a christian and I don’t really care!

Just have a Good day, whatever you do.

 

www.awanderthroughthemind.co.uk/reflections-2017

 

Reflections…Week Forty Eight

canstockphoto8630797Have I watched that many ‘girly’ flicks and programs that I am, by doing this, copying the very format that the writers have used?

From Carrie (Sex in the City) to Erica (Being Erica) and Marin (Men in Trees) I too seem to be ending an episode (my week) with a monologue. True my very existence may not be the most interesting at this moment of time, but I do feel that the very people that I am meeting on my recovery are.

Sometimes I do not even know if the very people I meet are actually here (supermarket-meeting-poetry/poem), or my mind has created a person to teach me something. But for that moment in time IT IS important and interesting.

As an artist one spends time observing, even here my mind now sees things a little differently now, and then in whatever style chosen, places either a ‘true representation of the scene, OR the heart of it, the emotion, the feeling, the movement, the sound or the serenity. All with the flow of the paint and the movement of the brush, to no longer see what is being created but to just let it flow out onto the canvas.

As a wordsmith in training, one spends time observing, reflecting and creating an artwork of language. To simply place a series of words down for a poem is not simple at all, each word is lovingly placed, replaced or simply repositioned. All I write is done this way. A beat or rhythm of a journey taken with the words lays beyond the shape and form of the very words themselves. A wrongly placed pause can disrupt or even alter the flow, sometimes to the detriment of the wording used, dulling its edge.

A reflective diary is used in some therapies, a way to explore our existence, look for the ‘faults’ and find a better way in dealing with the situation, how then did this therapy get entwined into our TV? Was it intentional to pass on the lesson of reflection to improve our life, or was it just placed there by accident? A concept that outgrew the original pitch once the ratings came in? Or was it just a writer being honest about not having the perfect life and trying to work things out?

And thus the question leads back to me. Am I just doing what I am told, or am I part of a solution by doing the reflective monologue of my life?

And will you someday, in some form, be the ‘interest’, the focus, of my artwork?

 

www.awanderthroughthemind.co.uk/reflections-2017

The Old Men … #Poem#Poetry#Prose

The Old Men

The old men in this isle will stop,
when they’re on their weekly shop.
Magazines they read, for a while,
as one by one – stand single file.

A trolley they have with nowt within,
appears their shopping, yet to begin.
Partners will come and take it away,
glance up they will – with nothing to say.

They make no move, their partners to chase,
’tis not yet read, may loose their place.
When finished they will dawdle on,
’tis then they think – where have they gone?

A § M
3/12/2017

 

www.awanderthroughthemind.co.uk/writing

A Stokie Thanksgiving… #Poem#Poetry#Prose

A Stokie Thanksgiving

 

The American flag flaps with a vigour in strong gusts,
gently retuning to rest in the sparse lulls of the Stoke wind.
Thanksgiving the celebration, for the Clubhouse Network.

As burgers are flipped and ‘dogs’ are turned,
fat drips and lands with a sizzle.
Flames from the hot coals lick the burgers edge.
The smell is carried on plumes of smoke.

Joyful chatter is carried also with the wind as spirits are high,
but few stay outside, braving the nip in the air of winters approach.
I sit on the bench, taking the one dry section left,
covered it seems from the rain of the morn.

Downwind of it all I sit, watching, observing.
Being part of it all, yet ever so separate.
Until, unnoticed, I slip away.

 

A § M
3/12/2017

www.awanderthroughthemind.co.uk/writing