Information has become commoditized. To create information is fine, but to control access to that information is key. Google has staked its fortune to providing sifters for controlling access to the memory of the world.
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In a recent blog entry, I argued in the comments how time can be bent by the mind into slow motion in order to protect the body:
In the past, we have discussed here the phenomenon of time bending during accidents and emergencies as real time re-shapes to a crawl — I argue that slowing down of time is another brain protector that gives the body a chance to try to respond to, and then avoid, death or permanent damage. One inch here, a bend there, a twitch right there — can mean the difference between living and the forever darkness.
Running on CPT is a Racist phrase originally used against Black people to generically describe their lack of time management — but it can now also be effectively used on anyone who is perpetually late. “CPT” translates to “Colored People’s Time.”
Is it possible to “unring” a bell?
My first attorney in New York argued long ago it was not possible to “unring” a bell once it had been rung.
He explained to me how, in law school, he was taught the first thing you learn in open court is if your client “rings a bell” — that is, says something incriminating or stupid or wrong — you must not draw attention to it by “ringing” that bell again.
“Once the bell is rung,” he would say, “there’s no way to unring it, so ignore it and move along.”
Does “unringing a bell” have resonance beyond a Big Box O’ Justice to find reverberation in our ordinary lives?
If we say something wrong or make a big public mistake — do we apologize and make amends — or is it better to just “move along” without stopping to sound the gaffe again and then try to silently to fix the error with positive future action?
Can a bell be “unrung” or not?
I was at a meeting the other day and I heard the phrase — “He’s running on CPT” — to describe someone who was late for the meeting. A few people uncomfortably chuckled.
Why, to a five-year-old, does waiting a year feel like an eternity; while an 80-year-old feels a year goes by in the wink of an eye?
I wonder if the answer is a math problem.
To a five-year-old, a year is one fifth of life lived; while a year in the life of an eighty-year-old is only one-eightieth of time served.
How long would you wait for someone to meet you?
You have no way to get in touch with the person while you are waiting.