Ruminations - The Podcast of Nathan Zamprogo

Hey there. I've been doing this blog thing for five years now. I've covered a lot of territory, and it's been fun. In the meantime, I've been fortunate to have heard some wonderful podcasters out there. I'd like to single out Patrick McLean's The Seanachai, Wil Wheaton's various offerings , and even anything by our venerable Aunty. This is the future.

Self, I said to myself, you could do that too. Hmmm. Maybe. This may not work. No one may be interested. I may have a rotten feel for the spoken word. Fine. This is an experiment, and, as Henry Ford said, failure merely presents us an opportunity to start over more intelligently.

So let's dabble. Any of my posts that carry the banner you see above are also available as a podcast. Sometimes I'll do a written piece and an audio version, sometimes only one. Hey, it's my sandpit.

Here's the separate website where you can see the list of episodes.

Here's the iTunes URL to subscribe it to your podcast lists, and

Here's the more generic RSS feed URL if you use a feed manager other than iTunes.

Thanks. I'm excited! Don't forget to leave some feedback. Poor Nathan thrives on the occasional kind word.

Henry George Holland

 “No more stories.
We’re still using your imagination,
it was stronger than ours.”

Les Murray,

The Last Hellos

Twenty years ago, exactly to the day, I sat next to a man on his bed. If my arm hadn’t been around his bony shoulders, he couldn’t have sat up. His frame barely filled the pyjamas which spoke of a time when he weighed more. Much more. His wispy hair, white now, stood up at a crazy angle.

A flash of childhood memory: I used to think his morning hair was comical, like a cockatoo’s, before he’d put himself through his morning ritual of Brilliantine to become more senatorial in his presentation. He’d stand in the bathroom and look down at me in my dressing gown, smiling. Was I five? Six? He’d lean down to put shaving cream on my face and then shave it with the back of a comb. I’d get a fingertip’s worth of Old Spice dabbed on my cheeks and have my hair tousled before I would run out, beaming, to be told how grown-up I was.

No more. The lung cancer had won. One eye was a ruin of inflammation, and the other barely held a spark of the old man. Just sunken cheeks and a gaze of unspoken sadness and disgust at a life of self-reliance brought down to this degraded state. He was sobbing, but was almost too weak to do so.

I was sixteen. And I had no words. Just an inchoate sense of dread. This trip to hospital would be the last. My grandfather died later that day, 13th November 1989.

If you’ve lost someone like that, what do you think is worse? The death, or having  the majesty of who they used to be taken away first? It’s such an affront, isn’t it?

How my grandfather died says absolutely nothing about who he really was. No, there was one thing: At his funeral they were bunched up the back and pouring out the door.

So let me tell you about Henry George Holland.

He was born in 1923. Only my gran ever called him Henry. Usually as a one-word exclamation of reproof after he’d told a risque joke and she felt the need to fake being scandalised, while he’d roar laughing for whole minutes with his brother, Uncle Claude. Laughter always surrounded my grandfather. And to every other soul, he was Harry Holland from Glenhaven.

More than any other person in my life, Harry defined the kind of person I wanted to be. He was involved in everything. Even from the earliest age I remember him disappearing out the door, meticulously turned out in one of his dapper brown suits (always brown) to preside at this or that. President of Glenhaven Bushfire Brigade. President of the Glenhaven Progress Association. President of the Hills Shire Chamber of Commerce. President of the local branch of the Liberal Party. People were always calling at the house; city Councilmen, State and Federal MPs. They came to take tea with Harry, shake his huge, rough hands, and chew the fat. Because if you had Harry on-side, you had a lot of others as well. There was no bluster to Harry; just a chestful of the good sense he had inherited from a long line of ancestors. That sense was up on the wall of the local Church, where his grandfather’s name plaque (James Holland) was there as a founder, and around the corner, in Holland Road, named after the family; and in the local park, Holland Park, named because, by my grandfather’s generation, we weren’t just from the area, we were the area. He was awarded the National Medal with two bars, which was almost unheard of.

Our family used to run Glenhaven Post Office (see painting to the left), which was a hub for local gossip. But Harry was also the manager of the original Castle Hill Cinema (knocked down in the 70’s to make way for where Castle Mall is now. See below B/W photo)

What I learned at my grandfather’s feet was that civic engagement, especially as voluntary service in one form or another, should be as compulsorily a part of life as breathing. You got involved in things. You invested in something that was larger than you were, and you did it cheerfully, recognising that civic virtue should be an end in itself. That had a powerful effect on me.

Almost everything I’ve applied myself to as an adult has that thought lurking at the back of my head. I hope he’d be proud of me. People massively over-analyse nowadays whether it’s healthy to have ghosts like that at our elbows, but let me tell you, I’d rather be haunted by the expectations of someone like my grandfather to goad me on to better things than not to have had such a role model in my life.

Another flash of memory: Some circumstance caused a need to put all the Fire Brigade’s trucks on our lawn, since we were over the road from the station. Was I seven? Eight? Imagine the look on my face when I came out of the house. My grandfather gave me real fire trucks, be it only for a morning. I still remember his words: “You can push that button,” (the lights), “but NOT that button” (the siren). I think I short circuited from excitement. It was magic. I've written elsewhere about that yard.

There were a few things I shared with my grandfather that were definitely his and mine alone. One of our solemn rituals was to put up the chain of coloured party lights a few weeks before Christmas on the front verandah. I had a dog-eared sheet of paper where I had worked out the perfect sequence of colours that was aesthetically pleasing. He used to indulge me as I consulted the sheet and passed the bulbs up the ladder. He got why it was important. The sense of continuity from year to year might have seemed trivial, but it was significant to us. I still do it, working from the same Arnott’s tin of bulbs and the same dog-eared piece of paper.

When the Bathurst 1000 touring car race was on (the James Hardie 1000 back then. Oh my, how times have changed), we used to get out a big toy racing car set and take over the lounge room on the race weekend to play while we barracked for Peter Brock or Dick Johnson (Brock would normally lead until his engine invariably blew up half an hour from the finish). Grandma would keep us plied with scones and milkshakes, stoic about the chaos in her lounge room.

My grandfather was a wizard with all things mechanical. He was fascinated with engines and gadgets and he bought me my first computer, a Commodore 64. This love of technology meant that, long before consumer video cameras existed, there’s a rich history recorded of my first years on 8mm film. I’m so grateful for that, as I am for the precious library of reel-to-reel audio tapes of him in correspondence with his brother in Lismore. When I evoke his ghost from the machine, I travel back in time. His voice is at the end of the podcast version of this essay.

He was bawdy, yet gentle. He was casually racist about Japan, like so many in his generation, yet expansive towards anyone who took on Australian values. He did not suffer fools gladly, yet the twinkle in his eye showed that any censure was temporary.

My regret of course, was that he died when I was only 16. I remember starting to go to a few meetings with him (“Sit quietly”, I was told), but I think he was delighted I was inheriting the same values. He’d have been 86 if he’d been alive today. I think of all that life and advice he could have imparted to me if he’d  still been here. His absence is still an ache in my heart. I miss him so.

His example gave me my enduring fascination in how the web of community we create around us, through service organisations, churches, sporting clubs, veterans groups, dramatic and creative societies, political parties and so on collectively defines the kind of civilisation we can be proud of. It doesn’t come from our governments or corporate goliaths. It comes from people like Harry. I’m a member of a few community organisations myself, and sometimes I’m among the youngest in attendance, at 36! I wonder how we can ensure community spirit does not pass from our society, and how we can foster it in a selfish and introverted generation.

When my son was born in 2002, it seemed fitting that I would somehow name him after my grandfather. So, my son’s middle name is “Henry”, and sometimes I call him Harry because it pleases me (and because it makes him think he’s Harry Potter!)

My mind is flooded with stories, and I wonder what to else share. There’s a lot of memories my mother, Helen has been fortunate enough to recount for a local oral history project and the text and audio are available at the Baulkham Hills Council historical website (here and here).

I’d like to think I carry the better part of who my grandfather was with me. If I'm lucky, I might even manage to pass it on to my son as well.

And in case you’re curious, yes; I do wear Old Spice after shave, and I’m proud of it.

I opened with Les Murray’s poem “The Last Hellos”, which he wrote about the death of his own father.  He said,

“People can’t say goodbye any more.
They say last hellos.”

That’s true, but I like the last lines of that poem still better:

"Snobs mind us off religion

nowadays, if they can.

Fuck them. I wish you God"

In Which Nathan Becomes Subversive

When I was at Sydney University as a callow teen, ooh, 18 years ago, I wasn't really the seditious type. Membership of S.U.S.S (the caving society) was my only indulgence, and well I was rewarded with the fondest memories of that season of my life. I recall I could have joined S.P.A.M (Sydney (Monty) Python Appreciation Movement), S.U.C.R.O.S.E (Sydney Uni Chocolate Revellers Opposed to Sensible Eating), even S.U.C.C.A.S (Sydney Uni Cuban Cigar Appreciation Society), but I seem to have passed on those. Ah, salad days.

Politics though, seemed the province of those with more ego, or bile, and certainly more time, than I. I was a member of the Sydney University Liberal Club, yes, but really I only watched with bemusement at the internecine factionalism that wracked the movement in the 90's. Let's see; There was a Group, I think. And a Team. The Group didn't like the Team and the feeling was mutual. And... Sorry. The memory's gone. It was all rather petty. There were banners and fliers and a ticket for the Student Council election named "I hate Justin Owen" (don't know why the name sticks in my mind; I have no idea if he deserved that kind of disapprobation). This was served with the explanation that Universities are traditionally the place where you can cut your teeth being unpleasant before you become professionally unpleasant in the corporate world or grown-up politics. Sometimes it was clever, but mostly it was blunt. Holding a megaphone or a banner wasn't my shtick. My flaw was wanting to discuss ideas rather than playing the man. Silly me.

When I decided to go back to Uni, I formed a notion I'd perhaps been too pliant before, and maybe should use my life-experience and this second chance to kick up a little more dust this time. Besides, University life nowadays seems so... banal. I don't know if it's the passage of the years or going from a Uni like Sydney to the decentralised and brutalist UWS that marks the difference. There's so little dissent, or intelligent questioning going on that I can see. There's no sign of a Conservative political presence on campus. A smattering of your typical ratbag Greens, of course (which the Trotskyists at Syd.U would have eviscerated and eaten for breakfast as "right wing running dog lackeys").

So when our English Literature lecturer referred cryptically to a "celebrity guest lecturer" coming up, curiosity was piqued. "Who?", we queried our tutor. "Nathan Rees, Premier of NSW." came the answer, "He's got an honours degree in English Lit., you know".
Oh, great. So we lose a week to hear the Premier tell us what's on his bedside table.

We've been studying some impenetrable texts this semester; Shelley's Frankenstein, T.S Eliot's The Waste Land, and Beckett's Endgame among them. Oh, and those last two are utter meaningless rubbish, thank you. Bleak, dystopian tosh. But we have to understand them, not like them, and now we lose a week.

So, I thought I'd make amends for my milquetoast former career as a student and, like I said, kick up a little dust. For those who might not know, Nathan Rees is our State Premier and leads the most tainted, tired, ramshackle, incompetent, faction-ridden, overdrawn government our fair state has ever had the misfortune to fall under.

So I made some banners and put them up just before the Premier came in to speak. I wanted to stay with the theme of our course, but still be a little pointed.


Yes, a little dense, but those in our course would have understood immediately what I was driving at. Better than "F*** off, Nathan", at any rate.

To my utter surprise, no one immediately took them down and frog marched me out. A few students took photos with their iPhones, and one said "Wow, I really admire your balls", which I haven't heard said to me outside the confines of a bucks night for many a year. I'd like to think the Premier had to look at those two banners the whole time he was speaking.


The Premier came in, gave a rambling speech which a friend afterwards described as "not entirely unconvincing all the time" (I think that's called damning with faint praise), took only two questions and answered neither of them. I however, felt a certain sense of triumph. I had done something... well, naughty. I was subversive! Where would this end? Visions of wearing odd socks or parting my hair on the other side swam giddily in my head.

My sense of triumph lasted precisely until I shouted myself an extravagant lunch of fish and chips and put two sachets of sugar over them instead of salt. But beware, the beast is now unleashed.

The Cetaceous and the Celestial

Hate to do a "best of" to you today, but I thought I'd
bring you a post I made on my other blog (sadly neglected of late)
a while ago, because it says a number of things that
are important to me, and I liked my turn of phrase in it.

I once holidayed on Moreton Island, off the Queensland coast. One of a tiny handful of places on Earth where wild dolphins nightly congregate to be near, and fed by, humans. There we were, I and my wife and young son, standing on a long wharf under the brilliant splendour of a starry southern-hemisphere sky. Below us, in the shallow water, sentient beings were bringing their young to the sandy shore to be fed fish and, I am sure, to gaze curiously up at their distant, landbound cousins. If you’ve ever been regarded by a dolphin, you'll know what I mean.

Occasionally, the dolphins would break their formation along the line of handlers moderating the queue of people who wished to feed them, wheeling away to chase off an interloping (but entirely harmless) Wobbegong shark in silent but flawless concert, or reprove an errant calf back to within its mother’s watchful gaze. I looked upward to see the warm breeze stirring the palm trees along the beach, and the dunes of the island rising to black silhouette against the velvet sky.

Suddenly, half the sky was incandescent- immediately where I had rested my gaze. A massive fireball, green and white, was streaking across the sky, comet-tailed, writhing. For perhaps four long seconds, a hundred people froze with upturned faces; gasping. The Meteor was significant enough that it featured on the TV news the following night, and there was speculation it had landed, somewhere inland.

Afterwards, on a long walk along the beach alone, I was struck with a powerful sense of… planethood. Of being a citizen of the Cosmos, given a sliver of the grandeur that the Universe is full of, but hidden from sight by the tyranny of distance and human mortality. Friends who know me well will recognise my disorder, which I refer to as a propensity to “come over all Carl Sagan” at such moments.

I held a sense that such wonder as I felt is more than atoms just bumping together. That dolphins, palm trees and meteors, along with the delight of my Son’s efforts at sand castle building, were emergent properties arising from the same physical laws that were equally valid near each of the 200 to 400 billion stars I saw above me in the edge-on view of our galaxy, one hundred thousand light years across.

This Uranian muse led me further: I became aware of how my love of Science was contributing to my sense of wonder. I was turning over in my head many things- the scale and age of the Universe wheeling above me; the philosophical debate about animal sentience and the nature of consciousness; the Deep Time that freed the sands upon which I trod from their parent rocks; the probability that the colour of the meteor’s ionisation trail was indicative of its metallic composition, the notion that this breadloaf sized piece of rock had probably silently orbited the Sun since my ancestors were lobe-finned fish, before choosing the very instant I was looking up to meet its end. I imagined that the rock’s entire history- every microscopic perturbation of its orbit, its lonely solitude in the outer solar system, and its precise moment of death, were in some sense purposed. Meant for observation. So I would be inspired to write this. So that you would read it, and so that you could share in the singular sensation it evinced.

At that moment, my heart was full. I gave thanks that I lived in an age where, even though we are only one rung above the ignorance that has characterised most of human history, what we have learned as a species through the application of Science had brought me, for a numinous instant, closer to God.

Later, I wondered at how others might interpret the same things as I had observed, believing themselves to be both sane and wise. Without the benefit of the insights Science have afforded, I might have regarded Dolphins as little more than food, never inquiring concerning their ability to love or suffer. I might have regarded the meteor as an ill-omen, perhaps requiring some kind of sacrifice to propitiate an angry deity. The galactic vista spread above my head would be seen as little more than window dressing- the irrelevant backdrop to an entire Universe which was not merely Geocentric, but Homocentric.

Lastly, I realised that there were those- many, in point of fact, who would regard all the Science that was brought to bear to enable my sense of wonderment, as... suspect. Certainly presumptious. Possibly even evil. The Geology accurately explaining the sandy strata in the cliffs above me would be seen as a deliberately deceit, pushed by those seeking to “do away with God”. The Astronomy purporting to describe a Cosmos of many billions of light-years and many trillions of stars would be seen as, quite literally, diabolically inspired, and eroding of faith. The Biology which shows the evolutionary vestiges of the Dolphin’s Artiodactylic, terrestrial ancestors would be dismissed out of hand as “foolishly based on the wrong worldview”.

Experiences like these have shown me that my Universe is immeasurably grander and honouring to the extravagant creativity of God than the tiny, middle-eastern, pre-Scientific, vengeful god that many people incorrectly presume to extract from the pages of the Bible. The views of such people are as outdated as witch burning and will be looked upon as such by future generations.

And if this annoys you, good.

A personal interlude

I worked for a long time at a private School. I was always flattered when colleagues said “You ought to teach”, but I was happily in a groove where the technology I managed dominated my sense of identity. I was happy to pour myself into work where the satisfaction I gained was from enabling others to teach well. I got a real thrill when I saw people using technology to educate better, but there was always something else lurking at the back of my mind.

You see, I was always something of a "Philosopher-IT Manager", and friends became used to a lecture in politics as I fixed their email, or a spirited debate on the interface between Science and Religion while I fixed a printer (especially when I was cruising the Science faculty), or perhaps a bon-mot from my slightly warped sense of humour. If you passed my cramped but familiar office you may have heard me quoting Carl Sagan as likely as Augustine, while my walls were a shrine to photos of my beloved wife and son, salted with dog-eared sheets with quotes by Teddy Roosevelt, XKCD cartoons and a huge, byzantine map I had made of our burgeoning network. For those who looked closely, the map included several easter eggs, like a Where's Wally figure, or the USS Enterprise tucked into a corner. Yes, I was chronically overworked and under-resourced, but for the most part, I felt appreciated and the time, ten years, just kind of blissfully slipped by. It was the ideal life. I was blessed beyond measure. I was paid what my skills deserved. Until nearly the end, I loved what I did. I was among friends, and I had any number of outside interests, like my local dramatic society The Richmond Players, a place of respect in local politics, welded-on friends, and material and spiritual richness in my life.

I could have joyfully seen my days out doing that, regarding my service as worthy. But I had a growing conviction, starting a few years ago, when I realised that my real passions lay with ideas. The prospect of a life where debating bigger questions was not just an amusing adjunct to work or evening avocation seemed like an impossible dream. Imagine being paid to think and argue! Or teach! Colleagues, mistaking my intentions said, "Oh, you'd make a great computing teacher." Frankly, the idea of teaching computing now makes my skin crawl. I'm still a tech-fanboy (or it's sub-specie, the Apple fanboy), but I'm done with that. Something else has taken a hold of me. Exactly what direction I'm being led in isn't clear yet, but I am now enjoying the journey again. I'm back at University, and my recurring thought is “I should have done this years ago”.

I won't pretend that the decision came easily. This year has been the most challenging of my life, but I'm amazed at the serendipity of life. That security of circumstance which I feared most to lose was precisely what held me back. Anyway, I can’t abide self-pity. You get back up, shake the dust off, and you get on with things. The best is yet to come!

I've been into my new degree for a couple of months now, long enough for some distinct impressions to crystallise. Studying History, Politics and Philosophy has plunged me right into the debates that interest me most. Despite initially chafing at the absence of choice in the first year, doing subjects regarded as "foundational" like Media and Visual culture, or Australian History, I’m hugely enjoying having my beliefs subjected to the need for analysis, emendation and proof. When I get time, I’ll share some vignettes with you.

Welcome to the University of Nathan.

Ai! Ai! Cthulhu F'taghn!!

“It represented a monster of vaguely anthropoid outline, but with an octopus-like head whose face was a mass of feelers...”*

This explains a lot. 6YO son is back at School tomorrow. Not a moment too soon.

* With thanks to H.P Lovecraft and Defective Yeti.
It's not plagiarism, it's a meme.

Normal Transmission Will Resume Shortly

I always loved the story of the British journalist William Connor, who enlisted during World War II. As a consequence of that catastrophic tumult which killed millions, wracked the world and changed its shape, his regular column in The Mirror was absent for some years. In 1946, resuming his column under his byline of Cassandra, he dryly began "As I was saying, before I was so rudely interrupted".

Indeed. I'm sorry I've been away.

The anecdote is ironic and tragic, too, since I am presently fated to have a Cassandra in my life as well. But that is a story for another time.

In the last six months I've quit my job of ten years, changed houses (and as a corollary, acquired a new station in life as a Landlord), changed my son's school, endured personal tragedy, and confronted malevolent forces at play contending for the happiness of my family. On the upside, I have decided to return to study (after an absence of 16 years) and that's an exciting opportunity I'm lucky to be able to take.

I've decided to take a degree in History, Philosophy and Politics, with the option of a Masters in Teaching in the last year, should I choose it. Needless to say, gentle reader, I insist you come along for the ride.

Life throws us googlies occasionally (I almost said "curveball" but find the Anglo term more satisfying), and the rational man looks for answers. If answers are not readily at hand, a quest is in order. Several friends have pointed out that not all men choose to take a degree in Philosophy in order to answer a personal question, but that's just me.

Although we're diametrically opposed on matters of faith, I'm reminded of Betrand Russell's view:

"The man who has no tincture of philosophy goes through life imprisoned in the prejudices derived from common sense, from the habitual beliefs of his age or his nation, and from convictions which have grown up in his mind without the co-operation or consent of his deliberate reason...while diminishing our feeling of certainty as to what things are, [philosophy] greatly increases our knowledge as to what they may be; it removes the somewhat arrogant dogmatism of those who have never travelled into the region of liberating doubt, and it keeps alive our sense of wonder by showing familiar things in an unfamiliar light."

Lastly, I've been noting things that strike a chord with my current state of mind. I thought this was a gem (having studied and worked in a technical discipline for 15 years, I was starting to feel like this):

Attribution (highly recommended webcomic)

Hang on, folks. We're in this together.

Time to Think

Image credit

I've neglected my writing, sad to say. Personal issues, yada yada.
But look! A friend writes with a question and my muse grew to such a length I thought I'd share it with you.

My friend Emma writes:

"hi guys, this is an odd query but I am writing a children's story in which time will stand still for a number of minutes/hours. I have tried looking up stuff relating to the physics of timelessness/time stopping/the illusion of time and am not ashamed to admit I was completely confused! I thought you might have some ideas...if time was to stand still, what would the effect of that be on the world?

any ideas would be much appreciated!
em"

Ah, Time. As The Doctor once said "I do wish I had the time to explain dimensional transcendentalism to you". Then again, he also said "Don't move! Or I'll kill this man with this deadly jelly baby", so maybe he was just balmy.

The notion of "stopping" time makes certain assumptions which may have a dramatic consequence for your story. First, stopping time relative to what? If you say "Lucy froze. Time ceased to flow for five minutes; her dropped porcelain cup suspended in the air, surrounded by a nimbus of oblately spherical droplets of tea, except for one somewhat larger blob which, at the point of motionless, had assumed a shape not unlike a cow's amygdala as it attempted to leave the cup, the metaphysical significance of which would never be detected, let alone debated by philosophers.", then her timeless state enduring for "five minutes" can only have any sense if there existed an "outside reference point" by which to have measured the interval. We commonly ascribe God as inhabiting this realm "outside time", also accounting for his ability to "see all of time at once" and unerringly picking next week's Powerball numbers.

As for poor Lucy, if time stopped for her for any stretch of (outside reckoned) time, by rights she should be entirely unaware of the phenomenon. For all you know, God popped the Universe on pause half way through you reading that last sentence to go to the loo, paused it for a million years in fact, and only just came back then and pressed play again. Did you notice? How could you? It's like another gedankensexperiment: "Imagine you wake up tomorrow and every atom in the universe is twice the size". How do you tell without a reference point?

Descending from the heavenly sphere for a moment, there is a scientific analogue: Relativity. Einstein's theory suggests that time does not flow equally fast for all observers in the universe. The flow of time for an observer can differ from his observing twin if he is subjected to an intense gravitational field, or subjected to acceleration at close to the speed of light. Doubtlessly this conjecture will be tested by the Mythbusters team in due course, but the physics are reasonably well established. Read this synopsis for Heinlein's "Time for the Stars" for a typical fictional treatment of this phenomenon. At the extreme end (for instance, close to the event horizon of a black hole) a clock dropped towards a black hole will appear to an outside observer to tick ever more slowly, and even freeze. However, it must be stated that to the other participant, time seems to flow normally, and will even observe the reverse effect (the other twin's clock ticking more and more quickly). Einstein, despite never wearing socks, seems to have had the physics down-pat.

One favourite plot device used by "time freezing" stories involves only a "partial freeze". Our protagonist freezes time and yet retains the ability to move about - rearranging people or objects for comedic effect, for example. A classic example of this scenario is from an episode of the Twilight Zone I vividly remember from when I was 13.


Dramatically, this is entertaining. From the standpoint of physics, it's a muddle. What atoms are "frozen" in such a partial freeze and which aren't? In theory, our non-time-frozen subject could not move or breath, as the atoms of air through which she moves would be fixed and immobile. I recall a CS Lewis story where a character could not walk across a lawn of time-frozen grass because each tender blade, being locked in place, was now like a knife.

Lastly, there's the sneaky-cheat way of stopping time. If you want a character or scene frozen for a "span" that has some meaning to some outside observer, maybe stopping time isn't what you need. All you need to do is render motionless each atom in your tableau, preventing chemical or physical interactions from occurring; effectively stopping entropy (the tendency for things to fall into disorder) in a localised space, for a time, even though time itself is still flowing. If such a situation could be engineered, I would imagine the people therein would say time froze for them, although the persistence of conscious thought during such an interruption would make a fascinating debate between those who place the conscious essence in the metaphysical realm and those who tie it to the atoms bumping about in your head.

I hope this meandering muse helps you formulate your story. I wonder what others will have to say?

Regards,
Nathan