If you were of a species that divides like a cell once a year or so, and maintains memory and consciousness as it divides, how would you think about identity?
One possibility: “This is my fork brother, Steve. We had the same childhood, and then had different high school sweathearts. He married his, and I left town to go to a different college.”
You’re fifty – You’ve finally decide that it’s time to ditch the rat race, and you’ve moved to a remote Scottish island to set up a tea room and farm Zwartbles sheep. Every time you’re sat by the field gate, a man about the same age as you stops to chat – He moved up from the mainland twenty-odd years ago, bought the post office, and now everyone thinks of him as a local.
“Man, there’s just something about island life isn’t there? It slows everything down, makes it all seem like this is how it’s always going to be.”
“This place just always called to me” he says, watching the first of your new lambs getting to its feet and starting to suckle, “Ever since I worked at Jenning’s Typewriters, I’d always wanted to move here.
I had a little postcard of the lighthouse above my desk from…”
You realise that you both spoke that last sentence together.
“You married Martha?”
“You took that promotion?”
You look at each other, and but for thirty years of difference, it’s the same face looking back.
Hermione smugly presenting the findings of the international symposium that declared Pluto not a planet as final proof that astrology is made up.
But it turns out that’s what’s been throwing off everyone’s readings so a lot of divination quickly starts becoming more refined and accurate when they take that into account.
Hermione is hailed as a divination savant and that’s what she’s most known in the history books for.
that autism feel when your bad motor skills show up in weird ways so no one believes you that you have this symptom, like you can do very fine needlework and tiny drawings but you always misjudge how close you are to the corners of tables and chairs so you’re forever hitting your legs on things, and you just can’t seem to judge how far back to tip a can or a bottle sometimes, so you’ll spill soda all down your chin in public and feel completely embarrassed
SO. MANY. INEXPLICABLE. BRUISES. (I tend to phrase it as “sorry my proprioception just fainted.”)
Dad jokes honestly have this amazing way of perpetuating themselves across time and space, and I have an example from my own life that warms the cockles of my cold, dark heart.
So, when I was fourteen, I went on a cruise of the Baltic Sea with my best friend’s family, and one of the few American families I met laughed when I told them that we were from near Washington, DC. They said they had a long-running family joke about DC– once upon a time, they had gone on vacation there and thought it was funny how everything started with the word ‘National.’ While exploring the National Mall, they saw a beautiful gold-domed building slightly off the beaten path, near the National Gallery. Figuring it was an important monument or museum, they went off the Mall and up the road to explore. When they got there, they saw it was a Starbucks. The dad paused, and then said, “Well, I guess it’s the National Starbucks.”
Apparently, the whole ‘National Starbucks’ become a joke with them, I imagine the kind of dad joke that the dad reflexively makes every time anyone mentioned Starbucks or something like that.
Well, let me tell you, ever since I first heard that story, almost ten years ago now, I point out the “National Starbucks” whenever I’m on the Mall with friends and family and recount the tale. It’s become one of MY reflexive dad jokes, and I know that If I ever have kids, they’ll probably start saying it, too. Maybe the probably 30+ people who have heard me tell the story will do the same.
Not long ago, I was out with friends, and we were thirsty, so one of my friends recommended, “Why don’t we go to the National Starbucks?” Everyone in the group knew what she meant because they’d all known me for awhile. I just love that this weird unfunny inside joke from some random family from New Jersey who visited DC ONE TIME has spread to my social network in DC. Dad jokes are immortal.
In closing, spread the word of the National Starbucks next time you’re in town.
I just started working in DC, so I need to find this and start doing this.
Bridget Holmes (1591-1691) was a domestic servant at the
English royal court during the 17th century. As a “necessary woman”,
her jobs included cleaning the royal apartments and emptying and scouring
chamber pots. She lived through the reigns of seven monarchs (Elizabeth I,
James I, Charles I, Charles II, James II, William III and Mary II), the age of
Shakespeare, the age of discovery and the age of revolution. She served five of
the Stuart monarchs (Charles I, Charles II, James II, William III and Mary II)
and was considered to be a bit of a fixture at the court. She was so
well-respected and regarded with affection, as a lady of great age and of great
loyalty to the Stuart kings, that James II commissioned this portrait of her in
1686, probably painted by John Riley and John Closterman; an extravagant
commission but one certainly to James’ credit as this is one of the first
pre-eighteenth century portraits of a working class person. In this portrait,
Holmes teasingly brandishes her mop at a Page of the Backstairs, and the set-up
of the portrait treats her with great dignity.
Bridget died in 1691, at the age of 100. One of the longest
serving royal servants in history, she is buried in Westminster Abbey and there
is a monument noting the monarchs under which she dutifully served. This
portrait now resides in the state apartments of Windsor Castle.
that autism feel when your bad motor skills show up in weird ways so no one believes you that you have this symptom, like you can do very fine needlework and tiny drawings but you always misjudge how close you are to the corners of tables and chairs so you’re forever hitting your legs on things, and you just can’t seem to judge how far back to tip a can or a bottle sometimes, so you’ll spill soda all down your chin in public and feel completely embarrassed
SO. MANY. INEXPLICABLE. BRUISES. (I tend to phrase it as “sorry my proprioception just fainted.”)
Kimchi and Justice 