The Living Shadow I want a lot, and there's a lot I don't. But I'd rather I not want at all. To want - such a human thing to do! You know, a trait of those organic markers who demarcate and deface—then there are those gray areas. Like an epidemic, the smears spread from one to another.. I apologize. I'm making the murky waters murkier. To elucidate: A yellowing calendar page materializes before my own eyes. As I ponder above the black-and-white chessboard splashed with gray, I glance as an inexplicable draft flattens the page momentarily over a dusty dividing line. The page reads, "August 18, 2008." Immediately, the sheet transmutes into a pane of glass. Nonchalant, I stare as the pane rises up over me, and shatters against my head. The glass pieces disintegrate upon impact, and I stand among showering particles, examining my new environment. The board has become a garden, one partially teeming with life and mixed with utter death and destruction. I reach out and lightly grasp a blurry leaf. Did I touch it? Did I imagine it? As if in answer, I feel it—and then, it's gone. I went into a coma on that day. At least, that’s what they say. They say I was crossing a street near my school on the way to my home. I was jay-walking. More correctly, I was breaking the law. Yes, the irony soaks that calendar page. Yes, a car hit me, sending me flying. No, the actual impact wasn’t that damaging. Two fractured clavicles, I think. But obeying the laws of gravity, I fell. Apparently, my head landed on a concrete edge. More correctly, the back of my head collided with stone. Yes, that was damaging. A debilitated cerebellum, I think. Since my brain stem incurred damage, it meant that I would possess a physical disability for... ... middle of paper ... ...I raise my pen and jerk it downward. Paint is a temporal dress at best, right? At the moment before the knife-like tip strikes a knife-like slab, my movement is halted. Flabbergasted, I try again. What else if not the same end that meets me? I relax the utensil. It’s an unspoken rule: I can’t know some constitutions. A draft inexplicably evinces, and as a reminder, a page materializes: ‘What matters,’ it states. “Life matters,” I retort. What I believe is life, is what I see—what humans see—and what they see defines what they choose to do: it’s the human way. I choose to believe what is important. And what a human thing to do! So be it, I am an organic marker. I spread the epidemic. Just an organic marker, scribbling and smearing. The murky waters stay the same, as I run my course. Like an unspoken rule, physical constraints run with me. It’s the human way.
Unless it is extreme, you would not guess it. When most people met with the McKays, they said that they had no idea they suffered from disabilities. These injuries can affect a person in different ways that we do not understand. Sometimes even doctors struggle to understand brain injury, which can cause a lot of trouble for people who are suffering from TBI.
Scientists are on the brink of doing the unthinkable-replenishing the brains of people who have suffered strokes or head injuries to make them whole again. If that is not astonishing enough, they think they may be able to reverse paralysis. The door is at last open to lifting the terrifying sentence these disorders still decree-loss of physical function, cognitive skills, memory, and personality.
It seems that everyone wants something that they cannot have. Whether it be wealth, sexual fantasies, a family, status, or whatever the case may be, most people will go out of their way to acquire what they so desire.
“Ok thanks”James sounding sad.Him and his mom leave the hospital and on the way home the car was silent.
My earliest contribution was gathering a portion of the background information about accelerometers and Gravitational forces. Furthermore I found the first commercially available accelerometer of the group. Unfortunately we were unable to obtain all of the in depth information that we were searching for about it.
Woven throughout Thomas’ The Lives of a Cell: Notes of a Biology Watcher is a desire to link scientific phenomena with social behavior—to peruse the symbiotic relationship that we, as humans, are incapable or perhaps unwilling, to contemplate. Thomas’s ridicule of what he has identified as being a sort of human superiority complex is the needle—the mechanism—by which he is able to stitch together these two seemingly divided realms. He has sensed our inherent fear of “touch” and all that it embodies, simultaneously criticizing and enlightening us about our irrational, bizarre attitude towards the natural world. Our repudiation of “the inhuman” and our craving for control, according to Thomas, “[say] something about our century, our attitude toward life, our obsession with disease and death, our human chauvinism” (“Thoughts” 7).
It was the day of April 13, 2000. I woke up at exactly 12 o’clock because my boyfriend was to pick me up at 1 like we planned the night before. The day looked quite nice, but I was in a fowl mood. I got into a car accident the night before and had a huge argument with my parents about the car. I finally dragged myself into the shower and got ready in half an hour. Then I went downstairs, sat on my couch, and repeatedly told myself the day would hopefully turn out better than last night. At around 1:15, my boyfriend came to pick me up. We took the 5 freeway to the 57 since it was the only way I knew how to get there. As we approached the 134 freeway, my girlfriend veered to the right, taking the 210 which was wrong way and got us lost. So, we exited the freeway and got back on the right track. Then finally, before long, we reached Norton Simon.
Imagine being a paramedic and you just arrived on the scene of a car accident. The car accident involved a man, whose car was driven off the bridge and into a river. The male driver was unable to get out of the car and ended up drowning. On your initial examination of the man’s body, you determined he did not die immediately but attempted to escape the car. Soon his family arrived on site and the man, whom drowned, his wife approaches you, upset and asks you, “If her husband was killed instantly in a crash or did he suffer before he died?” You must decide how you will answer this tough question, rather to lie, defer to someone else, or not to lie to her. Based of Kant’s theories the conclusion is we should not lie to this woman about what happened to her husband but speak the truth to her about the matter.
The settling dust reveals a capsule buried within the bedrock. Instinctively, I turned around to seek Cube for advice, only to remember Cube left after finishing his share. Engraved on the innocuous container is a series of characters, some unfamiliar to me: Do Not Open Until 2018. What does 2018 mean? Must be the box’s ID, I pretentiously thought. Using my pickaxe, I wrenched off the lid. The interior comprises of a few mysteriously thin substance I later learned is called “paper”. The majority of the papers appear to be photos of humans, but strangely, without cybernetic enhancements. Their lives must be dreadful without bionic organs. The remaining paper are maps, probably maps of the Beyond. An epiphany struck whilst analyzing the artifacts. The past, present, future -- my place in grand scheme of time. An indescribable realization, a novel understanding, a greater perspective: thoughts that define and haunt me.
Inside the nicely decorated room with taupe walls just the perfect hint of beige, lie colorful accessories with incredible stories waiting to be told. A spotless, uninteresting window hangs at the end of the room. Like a silent watchman observing all the mysterious characteristics of the area. The sheer white curtains cascade silently in the dim lethargic room. In the presence of this commotion, a sleepy, dormant, charming room sits waiting to be discovered. Just beyond the slightly pollen and dust laden screens, the sun struggles to peak around the edges of the darkness to cast a bright, enthusiastic beam of light into the world that lies beyond the spotless double panes of glass. Daylight casts a dazzling light on the various trees and flowers in the woods. The leaves of fall, showcasing colors of orange, red, and mustard radiate from the gold inviting sunshine on a cool fall day. A wonderful world comes to life outside the porthole. Colossal colors littered with, abundant number of birds preparing themselves for the long awaited venture south, and an old toad in search of the perfect log to fall asleep in for the winter.
The pick-up bounced jarringly down the old dirt road. The driver sat up straight in the front seat, checking over her shoulder every few seconds to make sure that her cargo hadn't fallen out.
Walking, there is no end in sight: stranded on a narrow country road for all eternity. It is almost dark now. The clouds having moved in secretively. When did that happen? I am so far away from all that is familiar. The trees are groaning against the wind’s fury: when did the wind start blowing? Have I been walking for so long that time hysterically slipped away! The leaves are rustling about swirling through the air like discarded post-it notes smashing, slapping against the trees and blacktop, “splat-snap”. Where did the sun go? It gave the impression only an instant ago, or had it been longer; that it was going to be a still and peaceful sunny day; has panic from hunger and walking so long finally crept in? Waking up this morning, had I been warned of the impending day, the highs and lows that I would soon face, and the unexpected twist of fate that awaited me, I would have stayed in bed.
Traumatic events come in many different ways at many different times of ones life. Mine came on the school bus while I was on my way home from school. The bus had stopped to let a couple kids off and I stood up to throw some trash away. I stood up we were rear ended by a young lady who had been trying to get a bee out of the car and not realized the bus had stopped. I was standing up and the impact caused me to bang into the seat in front of me and the one behind me. I didn’t realize what had happened until moments later when someone said something. As I began to sit down I felt a sharp pain shoot through my body and my heart started to beat rapidly.
I lived with my father for my entire life, but due to his work I did not spend much time with him. My father worked at a different city; and thus he comes home only a few times a month. My father is a mechanic. He works at a company that is distant from our home. This was due to the company being the only one and the first where cars were being assembled in Ethiopia. Sometimes on the weekends I used to go to his work place. He would give me a trip of the place; the station was filled with vehicles, trucks, and motorcycles. It was separated by sections. In each section there were only one type of vehicle and the assembly process was shown step by step. From a fuse to large engine of the car, components were getting attached.
My mom was incarcerated during the time so I lived with my Aunt Pompom. Aunt Pompom never let me and my cousins wake up late for school and if we did, we were driven. Coincidentally on this day both my cousin Zay and I over slept. So we jump up frantically and start putting on our clothes. In the mist of putting on my clothes I come on my menstrual cycle a week before it is supposed to come on. Then, to top that off when we tried to get my aunt up and she told us “yall over sleeping ass better walk”. She did not care if it was my birthday or not. So sadly Zay and I start walking and little did I know nature was also against me, it started to drizzle. I could feel every drip that dropped on me, I just knew I would smell like a wet dog once I got to school. The feelings I had walking were unimaginable I could have just clasped to the ground right then and there because there was no way my day could be enlightened it been ruined from the moment I