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Archive for June, 2012

grass srippers

Thought of this while walking around the concrete streets of home, missing Ithaca’s greenery and the feeling of walking on grass.  But not unexpectedly, someone else has already though of it before:

Wonder when we’ll develop the technology to have the analogous “Walking on Water” and “Walking on Sunshine” versions of this product!

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80 g/m²

A world without memory is a world of the present. The past exists only in books, in documents. In order to know himself, each person carries his own Book of Life, which is filled with the history of his life.

Without his book of Life, a person is a snapshot, a two-dimensional image, a ghost.

Some pass the twilight hours at their tables reading from their Books of Life; others frantically fill its extra pages with the day’s events.

With time, each person’s Book of Life thickens until it cannot be read in its entirety. Then comes a choice. Elderly men and women may read the early pages, to know themselves as youths; or they may read the end, to know themselves in later years.

Some have stopped reading altogether. They have abandoned the past… Such people look you directly in the eye and grip your hand firmly. Such people walk with the limber stride of their youth. Such people have learned to live in a world without memory.

-Einstein’s Dreams

by Alan Lightman

3 years worth of notes. Weighing more than 50lbs. They masquerade as my Book of Life, and it is true that I have spent much time on time. Flipping through these ring-bound sheets of carefully penciled notes, I recall not the theorems and proofs, not the histories and facts, but a professor’s cough as a cloud of chalk floats from the board, or an aside shared only with you as the minutes tick away on the clock above the door. Maybe it is enough to tear a corner from each set of notes, a corner that bears on its shoulders the burden of triggering all the memories that its brothers would have triggered in me. But even then, these loose corners will not tell the tales of what happens between and after classes, will not tell of the dandelions crowns we make in Spring, the rainbows beneath our feet as we walk back to our dorms. You have photographs, you say. At least we live in a world with memories, and even though my memory leaks like a sieve, it is better than not remembering at all. Maybe it is time to grip your hand firmly and run with you into the present. I have you, and when this world fades into the distance as our plane climbs into the clouds, as the recycling truck swallows our notes whole, we can start over again, and build new memories together.

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