Nude Girls! attracts more readers than Our Brain
(And you know it's true)
Our brains are wired for sex, and gives priority to processing
information of a perceived ssexual nature.
Einstein said that we only use 20% of our brain.
Cheech & Chong suggested we burn out the other 80%.
You can find the facts
here.
It is of interest to note that while some dolphins are reported to have
learned English -- up to fifty words used in correct context -- no
human being has been reported to have learned dolphinese. -- Carl
Sagan
On November 29, this article was a headline
around the world.
The truth is, we don't know a great deal about the inner
workings of the brain. Sure, you can get a good idea of the job it
performs, but we can't pin down, at any given time, how much of it we are
even using.
Most people have seen the movie The Rain Man,
but how many people know that there is a real one, by the name of ?
This is a man who holds more information readily available in his head
than anyone else ever known. But he doesn't have the proper connections
to solve all of the world's problems, and nobody knows exactly how to
ask the right questions. The god who doesn't play dice with the
universe played a couple of practical jokes on us, didn't she? Took
away Stephen Hawking's ability to communicate, and made Kim Peek
incapable of analyzing the myriad of information he has in his brain.
These two people, alone, deserve more international attention than celebrities having
psychological breakdowns.
If the planet is a living thing, it might be expected to evolve a
brain. It is impossible to scientifically define exactly how an
inanimate object becomes alive, or how a non-self-aware organism
acquires awareness. Simply put, we haven't got a clue. Here is a little
.
What about schizophrenia,
or Bipolar
Disorder, or other mental
illnesses? The truth is, we know so little about how the brain
actually does the miracles that it does for us, we can't even agree on
what mental illness is, let alone how best to treat it. You could take
the Insanity
Test,but the definition
is a little hazy.
So there we are. We don't know much about the brain, how it works, why
it works, or exactly what its evolved purpose might be. But there's a
little voice in there that whispers the answers to questions, prompts
us to take action if we get too hot, or feel too cold. It turns the
setting on our lungs up a notch when we are being strenuous, and won't
allow us to take our eyes away from that beautiful girl or guy that
just walked in the door. I talk to mine. Not out loud, of course, but
trust you me, I am in constant contact with that little dude every
moment I'm awake. I talk over my dilemas with him, and he offers me
ideas. I am the robot, and that little dude is the one who holds the
controls. He looks through my eyes as though they were the windows of a
vehicle. But he is oh so humble, and refuses to take credit for
anything. I have oftened worried that I was apathetic, and still do. My
reactions are dictated to me by the guy punching the controls. Often,
these reactions require a fairly long internal debate which appears to
last for nanoseconds on the outside. Is it appropriate to laugh at
that, or should I frown and shake my head? Should I simply nod in
acknowledgement, or go over and shake hands? WHAT IS LOVE???
I have come to think, as life has gone on, that this is not how most
people think. My ex-wife insisted that thought patterns for her were
like looking through rooms of boxes in search of the item she wanted.
For me, it's like calling 411.
And this gives rise to a question that I don't believe I have ever seen
before: Are there, in people, more than one kind of consciousness?
Maybe some folks have a MS-DOSWINDOWSXPVISTA
operating system, and others have a MAC, but then there are the
few and noble who run UNIX, and the
real nerds have SPARC installed.
Wouldn't it just throw conventional theory to the wind if we turned out
to be using different boot sequences?
For every sentence I type here, that little guy in my head types out 5
or 10, and deletes them and starts over. He substitutes words on the
fly, even as my fingers are reaching for the keys. And all the while
he's doing this, he's checking the clock, adjusting the coolant level,
checking the fuel, and monitoring the exhaust system. What I consider
to be the real me is nothing but a construct dictated by that other
operating system.
I write poetry. It's not a secret and I love to show off. But sheck
this out. More than 90 percent of my poems are written in less than 30
minutes, and less than 5% have ever had anything more than spell
correction done to them after they were written. It is extremely rare
for me to edit the primary wording and syntax of a poem after the
typing is done. That little guy in head.. he does it for as I go.
Often, he has the majority of the poem written, and simply rolls a
teleprompter across the screen on the back of my eyes, leaving me
nothing to do but copy the words from there to here. I take the blame
for typos, because the teleprompter rolls faster than I can
concentrate.
Not much point to the blog this week, just some things to hopefully
make you think a little.
