Before last week’s jaunt to Germany, I’d been zooming out from the origin and reinvention stories of stroke survivors. Instead, I was focusing on the origin stories, anthems, and mottoes of countries: (1, 2)
[Get apoplectic.me’s more whimsical and personal cousin here.] Continue reading The State of Origins, Pt. 3
Each year, The Fabulous Beth reaches five time zones across the ocean on Hogmanay to wish folks a Happy New Year from the future. You’re all here in the future now, right?
Well, welcome. Come on in. Have a cigar. Or don’t. There are resolutions to think of. Or not. Continue reading 2016 AD – Welcome to the Future
Last week’s post, The Man Don’t Give a ****, kicked off with a visit to the new James Bond movie, SPECTRE, before running off on a Brosnan-in-a-tank rampage through British foreign policy. But really, what I wanted to post was more in the vein of a classic, Moore-era romp.
So, let’s try this again, shall we…?
[More bite-sized whimsy and absurdité from Stroke Bloke here.]
Continue reading YOU are the next James Bond
Beth and I went to see the new James Bond movie, SPECTRE, last night. Long-suffering readers may recall that Bond has a cameo roll to play in the story of my massive haemorrhagic stroke. More about that in Being a Man Again: Strokes, Power Tools and James Bond.
It feels like seeing the stark, terrible beauty of Glencoe in Skyfall serves as easy reference for all of the parts of my life that were coming together to direct me back to Scotland. The Glen eventually served as a major character in a short story I wrote for the first issue of Brain of Forgetting.
Saw #SPECTRE tonight. Here’s the review. (Spoiler alert!) A lot of things happened. In no particular order. It was pretty. 2 stars.
— Ricky Brown (@ricky_ballboy) November 1, 2015
Continue reading The Man Don’t Give a ****
As I noted last week, you can measure out an Edinburgh life in festivals if you’re so inclined. And the 2015 Festival, and Fringe, and Book Festival all come to a close today, in a blaze of sunshine (as of 10:13 am BST).
[As apoplectic.me returns to its usual programming, please sign up for the Apoplexy Tiny Letter.] Continue reading Festival Judgement Day: Genisys
Thanks to last week’s commentators for all their input on apocalyptic fiction after the last post. There certainly seems to be something about the genre that appeals to people. It might be that, as J.G. Ballard said, it’s no longer possible – in the long lunar shadow of the moon landings – to create serious fiction without reference to science fiction. And as stroke blokes all over the world will know, you don’t get much more serious than the issue of continued existence.
1m 36s on continued existence in a long lunar shadow right here, buddy.
Continue reading Apoplocalypse! 2 – Der Zeitgeist
This week, I’ve been in LA with Longsufferinggirlfriendoftheblogbeth for the Gallifrey One Doctor Who convention. It’s been a bunch of fun.
The thing is, there’s a ten-hour outward bound flight to take, old friends to catch up with, panels to attend, and a return flight that surrounds the scheduled time for this week’s blog. Makes pulling together a stroke blog post a little tricky.
One of the panels we attended was called Faith and Fantasy, and examined “where Doctor Who has embraced – and where it’s conflicted with – matters of faith.”
[Sign up for bonus apoplexy here.] Continue reading The Expedition
For anyone who’s particularly keen to get an insight into this guy’s fear and frustration and confusion and claustrophobia during the early stages of stroke recovery, please sign up for apoplectic.me Tiny Letter distributions, if you haven’t already. I’ll be covering that today.
But as Longsufferinggirlfriendoftheblogbeth likes to say
It’s OK. We live in the future. He survived.
I mentioned once that I had let slip to Longsufferinggirlfriendoftheblogbeth that “I didn’t solely come back from [stroke-y] death because I had to see her one more time. I wanted to see her one more time, and tell her that everything was going to be OK.”
And that that was a a lie, solely to the extent I didn’t think I was going to survive.
I read something last week that, had I known it at the time, would have meant I could have delivered the message with a clear conscience. Continue reading Something Fishy
In autumn of 2012, they pulled the siphons from my skull, and the spigot from my spine. I slowly started making memories again, but I was rubbish at answering the questions doctors ask patients with brain injuries.
“Who’s the President?” they would ask.
Continue reading Through A Glass, Darkly