My entire education, everything I had ever been told or had told myself, insisted that the production was never meant to be improvised: I was supposed to have a script, and had mislaid it. I was supposed to hear cues, and no longer did. I was meant to know the plot, but all I knew was what I saw: flash pictures in variable sequence, images with no 'meaning' beyond their temporary arrangement, not a movie but a cutting-room experience.
At the sixth edition of the Aichi Triennale, which opened in Japan in September, wars and their effects loom large. The exhibition's title, A Time Between Ashes and Roses (until 30 November), comes from a line in a poem by the Syrian poet Adonis about the cycle of destruction and rebirth, observed through nature. It resonates throughout this year's event, where war, displacement, memory and the natural world are interwoven across venues in Aichi Prefecture, located to the west of Tokyo.
In "Consuming Place: Women, Wine and Imagination," Janine Aujard examined how women in England and Australia experience wine drinking not just as a gustatory pleasure, but as a medium for engaging with place, memory, identity, and imagination. She frames wine consumption as a cultural practice that allows women to "consume" spatial and temporal dimensions. In effect, they are drinking more than wine: They imbibe ideas of place, belonging, and time.
Memory - like cinema, in Andrei Tarkovsky's conception of the form - can be seen as a kind of "sculpting in time". In such an understanding of the term, the process of remembering is less like taking books from a neatly ordered library shelf and more like an act of creation in and of itself, a complex pulling of threads to produce an image that is true only insofar as it expresses something deep about its maker's subconscious.
You have a radio head tattoo on the back of your neck. We both lived on s.e. 28th ave. We spent only one night together but I saw you months later in the frozen food section at Fred Meyer and you were pregnant. Was it mine? This was over 10 years ago. I'm in my late 40s now and never had any children. Just curious. I don't even remember your name anymore as it's been so long.
The social aspect of music may be beneficial for your brain, too. Corbett also told Newsweek that the singers in the study had better complex task completion as they aged. But the study noted that the benefits that come with singing may also have to do with the social connections that are formed when singing with a choir or in a group setting. "Music doesn't usually happen in isolation," Fesharaki-Zadeh said. Think about it: Music is often played in a group, practiced with a teacher or performed for other people. That social interaction is one of those protective factors for brain health, he added.
The Grid, which challenges users to Remember A Guy that fits into various different categories every day, delivered an efficient if sometimes maddening way to scratch a mental itch that has been with me for more or less my whole life. At the very least, I'll generally do one in the morning to wake my brain up, and while I'm not sure that thinking about what teams Mike Fetters played for before breakfast is right for everyone, it absolutely works for me.
These researchers explored the influence of forgiveness on the memories of victims and perpetrators of a wrong. In particular, they explored whether forgiveness affects people's ability to remember the details of past events, whether they can remember the emotions they experienced in that past event, and also whether that memory still elicits an emotion. Across several studies, participants were given a prompt to remember a past event.
When we think of 'digital product design', it's tempting to frame it in terms of usability, engagement, or revenue. But those are surface-level outputs. Underneath, design decisions are time-shaping mechanisms.
I remember my mother exactly as I saw her for the first time: wearing a blue, azure suit, a white shirt, black heels, and dark brown mid-length hair curled with a bold red lip.
That's what these newer events do best. They draw you in with sound, light, movement, even scent. You're part of it, and regular nights out don't feel the same.
I have a recurring dream about my father and me, one of the few welcome dreams I have about him. We're both in our late thirties, though he's fitter than I remember him ever being. We're at Fenway, out in the right-field bleachers, several rows behind Ted Williams's red seat.
"Generations of Ginza-goers will be disoriented, but the San Jose restaurant at 215 E. Jackson St. is now called Kaita," wrote the Merc. "Six months ago, Koji Sugimoto bought the closet-size Japantown landmark, ripped out its worn walls, and installed new blue carpeting and comfortable benches."
