Wetware. Organic apparatus. Bio-processor. I have serious hesitations about each of these terms for the human body. I'm wary of conflating machines with humans. But there is at least one thing we have in common with machines: we rely on electricity to function.
As Doctor Who sums up: time isn't simply a linear progression. It's more like a big ball of wibbly wobbly, timey wimey stuff. So how do we actually slow it down?
Not all minutes are made equal. Some flash past in stealth mode, and others inch forward like an old man in a high-vis jacket. That's because there are (at least) two very different things we mean when we talk about time.
Rule of Thirds. Golden Ratio. Leading Lines. The conventional rules are geared to work well for a certain palette of stories. But what if you want to tell a different story?
Once we've been a person for a while, it's hard to stave off feelings of mundanity. But who's to say we can't start again?
Sometimes it's not clear if a shadow is part of the perfection or part of the imperfection in a photograph. Maybe life is like that too.
The word "spell" has a telling double meaning: both to arrange letters, and to cast magic. When we read, it's amazing how we can hear distant or even dead human voices telling us things, but at what cost?
Waiting is essentially about a desired future. It's the duration of time that is the obstacle between where we are, and where we want to be. No wonder it brings up feelings of discomfort, boredom, or even anger. But what if we could wait differently? What could we see?
For thousands of years, the sight of a star-filled sky has been a unifying human inheritance. The invention of the electric lamp in the late 19th century changed that. This has come with so many benefits, but what do we lose when we can no longer see the starry skies?
There are metaphoric mountains in the backdrop of all our lives. Standing strong through the different seasons, providing a steady reference point for all the change.