What’s in a Brain?

Not only is my chiropractor enthralled by my crooked spine, he’s a great audience. I’m guaranteed to get a laugh every time I see him. He’s also a sports therapist, so I like to ask him random questions when I’ve been pondering the unique oddities of my compostable container. I’m so strangely wired, in fact, that sometimes we both learn something.

Lately I’ve had problems with my teeth aching, but rather than going to the dentist like a normal person, I decided it was a nerve issue better addressed by chiro—and I was right. A couple of visits and some postural instruction later, and my teeth are quiet again. It also got me thinking about my nervous system. So I asked him:

“All our nerves are contained in the spinal cord, right?”

“Yes,” he said, “except for seventeen facial nerves. (He knew this because my teeth quandary had sent him back to the manual; boy, we had a laugh about that!) Everything else runs through the third and fourth cervical vertebrae via the spinal cord.”

Now was the time to spring my logic on him, but not before I got his expert take on the subject. “So, where does it start?”

“In the brain.”

So much for logic. “Oh!” I exclaimed. “I thought it started at the base of the spine and spread upward, like a tulip bulb!”

He thought this was hilarious. “No, no. The nervous system starts at the brain and continues from the base of the spine into your legs and feet. I’m surprised at you, Ruth. I thought you were smarter than that.”

“Yeah, well, I guess it shows how much I value my brain!”

I’m really more of a heart person.

Fast forward to the ancient Egypt exhibit at the Royal BC Museum.  It’s a fabulous meander through life on the Nile in the time of the pharaohs, spanning everything from geography to society to the afterlife. I’ve read a bit about the ancient culture and the rituals around mummification, but the exhibit taught me a few things I hadn’t previously known about the process of prepping the body. I knew the internal organs were removed and given their own individual jars—lungs, liver, stomach and intestines—but I didn’t know (or remember) the heart was replaced in the chest cavity and (get this) the brain was discarded. Turns out you don’t need it in the afterlife!

It’s not that important in this life, either, no matter how hard it tries to convince you otherwise. It doesn’t house your soul. It’s the mortal version of Windows: it keeps the compostable container alive, but it doesn’t know a darned thing about life.

Well, maybe it knows enough to fear dying. It runs the machine and houses the self-preservation software. It’s also got an impressive array of tricks to keep us believing it’s smarter than it really is. As the comic Emo Phillips once said, “I thought the brain was the most important organ in my body. Then I realized who was telling me that.”

Sure, when faced with imminent danger, the fight/flight response kicks in, but the brain is part of the standard mortality package that includes motor skills and bladder control. I suppose the intellect resides in the brain as well, as intellect lacks compassion for anything and anyone save itself. Intellect ridicules compassion and empathy. It sneers at getting by on what you need rather than raking in the lion’s share. It’s all about survival of the fittest—but not necessarily the smartest. It believes what it’s told (sort of) and makes up what it doesn’t hear the first time. To its credit, the brain is a good storyteller—the writer in me likes that point—but it does tend to focus on horror rather than hope, keeping itself relevant in the guise of keeping us safe.

I could go on, but I’m not a neuroscientist. I don’t even play one on TV. I do know, however, that my heart is far smarter than my brain will ever be. I suspect this is because my heart houses the innate wisdom of spirit, that which connects me to each of you and to the greater source of All There Is. What resides in my heart is truly eternal, limitless, immortal and divine. What resides in my brain is temporary, transient, subjective and useful only until I reach my carbon-based expiry date. It is utterly fallible, and utterly human. It provides the contrast our spirits need to help us experience this phase of existence. It’s not as smart as it is shifty, but if I’m going to be a true creature of spirit, I will be glad of my brain for as long as I am here. It serves a significant purpose, after all, but let’s get real.

I won’t need it in the afterlife.

Food Porn VI

“Oh, Muffin!”

Wow. That was close. If not for my lovely assistant, these applesauce-spice muffins would have been a complete disaster.

For the latest in my GF treat basket, I decided to make this easy-peasy recipe and, as usual, prepped the ingredients before I started mixing. The cup measure won’t fit in the flour jar, so I did the math and determined that 10 x .25 scoops would give me the requisite 2.5 cups, but, boy, did that look like a lot of flour. In fact, I ran out of the GF mix and had to top up with plain brown rice. Must have been an optical illusion, i.e., if I’d used a bigger bowl, it would have looked right. So, in went the baking powder, soda, salt and spices.

On to the wet ingredients.

Butter and sugar beaten to “light and fluffy”, it was time to add the eggs. However, as the stand mixer in our kitchen is me standing with the hand mixer, I called on Ter for help. She knows the drill; she’s done this often enough: Eggs first, one at a time, then dry/milk/dry/milk/dry.

“Boy,” she said once the eggs were in, “that’s a lot of flour.”

“One cup at a time,” I suggested, dismissing her observation as I had dismissed my own.

She dispensed the first cup in three increments (the better to incorporate flour into batter without dusting up the kitchen), then poured in half the almond milk. The second cup of flour went in, also in three increments.

“Wait a sec,” I said. “Are you using the third cup measure?”

She checked. “Yup.”

We both eyed the remaining flour.

“That’s way more than half a cup,” she said.

I was doing rapid calc in my head and suddenly realized, “Crap! I measured out the flour in half cups, not quarters!”

Ter blanched. “What?”

I gave her the half-cup measure. “One of these and we’re done. I wondered why it looked like too much flour!”

“Well, yeah,” Ter agreed, all but rolling her eyes, “because it is!”

I wore that one, emerging from near-catastrophe with gratitude for my trusty kitchen elf attachment. She helped with the cleanup, too, but ahead of putting the flour back in the jar, she glanced a little nervously at me and asked, “Did you put cinnamon in the flour?”

Oh, $***. So the muffins are only half-spiced and our flour supply has cinnamon, salt and baking powder already added. No breaded chicken until further notice.

I’m renaming this recipe “Right Brain Muffins” because that’s obviously where I was when I baked ’em.

Carpe Diem

There is a brief space between sleeping and waking when you are neither your dreams nor your thoughts. You are yourself. The space is neutral, utterly devoid of memory or anticipation, and if you recognize that space, you can use it to set the tone for your day.

In that neutral space, before you remember the fight you had with your spouse or the stupid staff meeting you must attend at 2:00 p.m., you can gain a foothold in the mood of your choice:

“I will fill my day with (insert here).”

Think it. Say it. The sentiment is energy, and energy attracts like energy. If you can sustain a thought for 17 seconds, it will attract a similar, more detailed thought. Sustain that thought for another 17 seconds, and a third, even more powerful step is taken toward managing the day. Positive breeds positive, negative breeds negative. Pick one and watch the blooming result. You don’t wake up in a mood; you wake up and remember something that ignites your mood.

It doesn’t have to be that way.

When I first heard of this “neutral space”, I decided to look for it myself. My first attempt was pretty successful: I opened my eyes, saw the space and promptly filled it with, “I will fill my day with joy and love.” Then I fell back asleep and dreamed of puppies.

Okay, starting while on vacation made it easier to choose joy and creativity over resentment and dissatisfaction, and I admit that I went down in flames on returning to work, but I scored some momentum during my time off. Granted, being awakened by the alarm sends me straight to the swear jar; however, I have learned to catch myself before the downslide gets perpendicular. I tell myself, “Whoa, stop!” That kills the momentum so I can regain control of my thoughts. I’m teaching myself to start each day with “I will fill my day with …” It’s still easier on weekends, but I’m gaining some momentum for the workweek.

So you had a fight with your spouse. That stupid staff meeting will go ahead. How you decide to resolve the inevitable is up to you, but truly, why would anyone knowingly choose to be in a bad mood? It only makes life harder, and life happens anyway.

Space Opera

Sarah swag:
the obligatory program, tickets and a signed lithograph

If Sting is a god, then Sarah Brightman is a goddess. She continually surpasses mortal expectation and has made me believe in heaven.

Ter and I saw her perform on the space-themed “Dreamchaser” tour on Thursday and we are still reeling. I’m unsure where to begin, so I’ll start with the obvious: the voice. Be it known here and now that I do not appreciate opera at all, especially the eardrum-shredding shrill of a soprano … yet Sarah is most definitely a soprano. She hits (and holds, by the gods) notes that don’t even exist, but she does it with a crystal purity that sends my spine into paroxysms of pleasure rather than spasms of angst against the flight instinct. By the same token, she can tap into the phenomenal power required to push out the richer, more resonant notes of pieces like “Nessun Dorma” or “Figlio Perduto” and make them sound like silk.

She’s considered to be a classical crossover artist. Classically trained, she can sing pretty much anything. She was the original Christine Daaé in “Phantom of the Opera”, the title track of which is a signature piece of her show. I love it best of all, but I think the climactic high note makes Ter wince. Sarah’s style is perfectly suited to performing some of the best pumped-up operatic chestnuts I’ve ever encountered, a hybrid of classical, pop, and New Age that never fails to send me straight into Right Brain. We started collecting her albums a few years ago – Ter was unconsciously aware of her for years previous, but I first paid serious attention when streaming the New Age vocal channel at www.sky.fm; almost daily a piece called “In Paradisum” was played and the vocal on it sucked me out of my chair and into an alternate reality ablaze with life and colour. It turned out to be Sarah Brightman. My office tea fairy and good buddy, Treena, was way ahead of the curve and already a fan; she had most of Sarah’s albums and was happy to lend me “Eden”, which opens with “In Paradisum”. Our CD library grew like a hothouse flower after that, and Sarah’s concert DVDs will soon outnumber those in our Def Leppard collection.

Then there’s the performance artist. Everything she does is on a grand—dare I say operatic?— scale. Her numerous costumes are glamorous – something like eight changes last week – and the light show on this tour is nothing short of spectacular. Her soaring voice, the swelling music, and the increasingly intense light flooding the arena were too much for some folks, I guess, but not for me. I wanted to be overwhelmed, to be swept away by the complete sensory experience, and boy, did she deliver.

She opened with “Angel”, the first single off her new album, and when the first heartbeat struck, I was gone. She doesn’t even have to form words; she can simply peal like a pristine silver bell and I will burst into tears. Gone. Done. Wrecked. Mortified. But really, when you’re sitting in the dark and everyone else is caught in the same spell, no one notices that you’re sniffling out loud. So I gave up and let the tears roll unhindered as the show flowed from one magical piece to another. Once in a while I’d glance at Ter, whose eyes were incandescent every time I looked. We’d nudge each other on occasion, thrilled at the opening notes of a particular favourite, but for the most part, we were content to be completely blown away. I actually forgot to breathe at times and forgot to blink at others. Mostly, I was road kill. Thoroughly mesmerized. And so deeply, profoundly grateful to be in the presence of such precise and powerful talent. This woman is clearly following her bliss and I was privileged to share a tiny part it with her.

When this tour is done, she’ll be in training to become an astronaut. She’s going to the international space station, a childhood dream of hers being to visit the stars. I hope she sings when she’s there. If ever a voice was meant to be heard in space, it belongs to Sarah Brightman.

* * *

I’ve inserted links to each of the songs underlined in this post – if you haven’t heard her sing and want a sample, click on any of the titles and close your eyes. Naturally, she won’t be everyone’s cup of tea, but she figures prominently in my creative process and for that I am eternally grateful.

Slipping Into Fiction

The problem with a long weekend is its inevitable end. I got so much writing done over the past three days that this morning I’m finding reality an uncomfortably tight fit. What do I do for a living again? And do I care? I should, but let’s just say I’m exceptionally grateful that I only have three days at the office before I get another three days off. I think I can fake it to Friday.

I’ve been all over the space/time continuum, that’s for sure. Present day angels, 17^th century paragons, my imaginary lovers in Castasia ... I even got some historical blog stuff written, though I forgot my flash drive at home so the post intended for today will go up tomorrow instead.

My reality is surreality.

I worked with Cristal all day Sunday. The story is slow, but at least it’s progressing. I actually over-wrote in that I pushed past my fatigue at the end of the day and wound up finishing at a less than satisfactory point. Having thought about it, I’ll be rolling back and rerouting the scene, most of which is salvageable though I see where I stumbled. I’ve also noticed a few Lincoln Navigators in the ’hood since I started writing this story – have they always been there, or have I dreamed them into being by putting one in Cristal’s parking space?

I’m also resisting the impulse to plunge headlong into my old affair with King Charles – without much success. Though I’m engrossed in the “Weather Warden” series by Rachel Caine, yesterday I pulled Antonia Fraser’s biography of Charles II off the shelf and apparently intend on reading it again. I have to, in fact. “A Royal Encounter” is just too good to let lie, but wouldn’t you know, the next scene ended abruptly and I mean abruptly. Fifteen years ago, I quit writing a scene in the middle of a sentence! Who quits in the middle of a sentence?? Having no idea where the character was going with his observation (and it wasn’t the King, by the way), I must now delve back into the time and see what the heck he could have been about to say. There might be a slight roll back in that scene, as well, though it reads smoothly right up to the thought falling off the page. Mostly I think I want to be in love and I’m pretty deep into it with Old Rowley.

As if that wasn’t enough creativity, I also resumed work on the novel! A cup of Persian Apple tea got me into Jannika’s head and pushed me back to the scene where I left her, and darned if I didn’t get us both out of the mire by the end of the day! Joe Elliott’s birthday probably kicked that one into gear. Lucius is going to be her father-in-law (is that a spoiler?) and she’s finding him easier to comprehend than his eldest son. I thought this romance would be easy. Roll your eyes here.

So, with Right Brain fully in charge, I’m looking at a pile of invoices and wondering what I’m supposed to do with them ... is it Friday yet?

No Left Turn

I must have succeeded in switching sides over the weekend. When I got to work this morning, I couldn’t remember what I do for a living. Honest. It took me most of the morning to settle into harness and even then, I had no interest in any of it. I caught up with co-workers and answered emails, which can be fun because it’s a form of writing. It was after ten o’clock and hardly anything had been accomplished before I finally realized that something mental was up.

Apparently, Right Brain is as aggressive and territorial as Left Brain once she’s in control. Regrettably, she’s not as sneaky else I’d have whittled the entire day away instead of getting wise an hour before lunchtime. Can’t say how the rest of the day will proceed, but I can sense logical, analytical Lefty creeping up in the passing lane. Righty is such a tourist, so easily intrigued by dreams and pretty things. I don’t have a problem with that on my own time, but I do have a work ethic (the source of which I am unsure) which demands I put in a decent day’s work for my salary ... but, really, does anyone really get as much done on a Monday as they do on any other day?

The Great Gatsby



Leonardo diCaprio - the 21st Century Gatsby



Once in a rare while, I’ll see a 30-second TV trailer for a movie I had no idea was being made and every hair on my body will stand up like it’s been fried. It happened a fortnight ago when I saw a blurb for “The Great Gatsby” opening on May 10. I can’t explain why, but I just had to see that movie.

So I did. Gods love her, Ter wouldn’t likely have gone on her own, but she came with me last weekend and wants to see it again before it hits DVD. I’ve been playing the soundtrack thin (except for two heavier-duty rap tracks—I’ve never been big on rap and Mr. Beyoncé produced this one) all week. Everything about this production was flawless: the story, the cast, the setting, the costumes, the music, everything hit the right note and left us stunned as the credits began to roll. Walking back onto the street was like beaming onto another planet; I wasn’t sure where we’d left the car and couldn’t conjure the words to ask. We hardly said a word until we got home and then I think it was Ter saying, “We have to see that again.”

Five days later, I’m still aglow with the beauty of it all. I was grateful to learn from the pre-show that Baz Luhrmann produced and directed, as I may otherwise have experienced the same initial WTF? reaction I had with “Moulin Rouge” some years ago. I came this close to sacking that one until my right brain kicked in and the story started to make sense. Not so with Gatsby. This time, I was ready for the genius instead of resistant to it. (BTW, “Moulin Rouge” has become one of my favourite go-to pictures when I want a good cry.)

The cool thing about Luhrmann is that he uses modern day music and effects to tell a story from another time. He totally nailed the crazy excess of the idle rich in the Roaring Twenties, and underneath it all was this wrenching love story that broke my heart even as I was dazzled by the decadent chaos around it. The players were awesome, really talented actors who aren’t so famous that they couldn’t make the characters real. I think, too, that I may be a closet Leonardo diCaprio fan, as I’ve liked him in everything I’ve seen though I’ve not actively sought out his films. He’s the big name in this one and he played the perfect Jay Gatsby. Perfect, I tell you! He’s grown into quite the movie star, in the same class as Gary Cooper and Gregory Peck and all those guys from the golden age of cinema. He’s got that rare charisma that improves as a man matures. George Clooney has it. So does Brad Pitt. Actually, a few actors in our generation have it, but the films themselves are less interested in capturing glamour these days, alas.

I haven’t read the book so I don’t know how true the script was to the original. All I can say is that it hit all the notes for me as a moviegoer. It also hit me in another odd way, but that’s another blog entry. Right now I have a story of my own to finish writing. “Between the Storms” is past the halfway mark and the climax is looming. I want to push it as far as I can today, as I’ve got other commitments tomorrow and this weekend which, while I will enjoy them, will also demand that I tear my gaze from the stars and flip my extrovert switch to “on”.

Before I forget, I’ve had to include a link to “Young and Beautiful” from the soundtrack. My inner romantic swoons every time I hear it. Gorgeous!

Later, old sport.

Research

Even when I’m not writing, I’m writing. My imagination is always floating around behind my mind, picturing scenes, overhearing dialogue, sussing out a character’s style in clothes or cars. Yeah, it looks like I know where I’m walking or I’m totally engrossed in that pile of invoices, but it’s all an illusion. A ruse to keep Left Brain occupied while Right Brain ponders truly important things like what kind of gun is sitting on Jake’s kitchen table, or what flavour of ice cream is Kim’s favourite. Jake is guessing that she’s a strawberry cheesecake girl, (she’s not); but wait. Does Haagen-Dazs still make strawberry cheesecake ice cream?

I’ve had to do some research for this story. Expert advice was called upon for the arms question, but I know where to go for ice cream. Or I think I know. Turns out there are two Haagen-Dazs websites: one for Canada and one for the US. Though the story takes place on Canada’s west coast, I had to check out both sites because no matter where they roam, my characters all share my belief that H-D is the best ice cream.

Neither site features strawberry cheesecake as a flavour, so I’ve had to amend the story accordingly. Boo hoo, eh? If only my visit to the Glock website had been so easy.

Bluesy Tuesday

If ever a day was meant to be Monday, it’s Tuesday.

Far enough in that Sunday is a memory and far enough out to put Saturday beyond reach, it sits like Saskatchewan in the middle of the week, linking east and west and doing little else.

Creatively, it’s the worst day of my week. By evening, everything I wrote is stupid and nothing I write will be worth it. My spirit is sapped and imagining anything but dinner is an effort. Actually, so is imagining dinner. Soup and saltines will do fine, thanks ... unless Ter can imagine something more interesting. Fortunately, she usually does.

That’s just how Tuesday rolls with me.

I know what’s going on here. Righty and Lefty are more evenly matched in their ongoing struggle for dominance on a Tuesday. Neither side has the edge, so my brain is fully stuck in neutral. I’ve known this for ages, yet the solution still eludes me. Rather, an effortless solution eludes me. I know if I put some energy into it, the excitement will come. I’ve got lots of characters and story ideas stashed in my noggin. They just get buried under the workaday humdrumming. Writing about it here may actually be helping.

Or not.

*sigh*

Fruit Loops

 

 

Since my last post, I’ve been observing Right Brain’s effort to reclaim supremacy over Left Brain, and it’s been interesting. At home on Thursday night, my mind was wired and tired and racing madly on the hamster wheel until I decided to go to bed uber-early and reboot in the morning. As I tend to wake up in right brain, it seemed the practical thing to do. But, like a vengeful toddler banished too early to her room, Lefty lay in wait yesterday morning while I watched the sun rise and had tea with Ter. I was still buzzy from year end, but starting to loosen up. A walk through the ’hood was next – watch the water, ponder blog entries etc. … then it happened. Whitney Houston began crooning in the back of my mind:

 

“and i-I-i will al-ways love yoooOOOuu … ”

Oh, no.

Three blocks later, the croon had swollen to a full-blown bellow:

“AND I-I-I-I-I WILL AL-WAYS LOVE YOOOOOOOOOOWAAAAAHHHH-I-I-I WILL ALWAYS LOOOVE YOU …”

No more idle meandering, no more contemplation of beauty or potential storytelling, just a frantic need to escape the torment of a 1000 decibel loop inexorably stuck in my head. I wanted to yank my brain out through my ears. I was only halfway home when Whitney dissolved into the hypnotic yet furiously annoying beat of the iPhone commercial that got more airtime in 30 minutes than the TV show I was watching the night before. Augh! Kill me now! Please!

Then I realized something. Music is a creativity enhancer. Music opens up your mind to an outside source, to art and emotion and love and joy and the all-encompassing sense of fulfillment that Left Brain simply cannot abide. Music is Right Brain domain. Lefty, however, is a survivor, and survival often means playing dirty. Lefty has figured out that music can be twisted to block the road to creativity. Oh, Lefty is clever. Lefty is slick enough and conniving enough to be in politics.

Lefty is no match for Ru.

Soon as I got home, I put on the stereo. Sarah Brightman, to be precise. Sarah is an artiste in every sense of the word. She’s dramatic, she’s theatrical, she’s artistic, she sings like an angel and best of all, Left Brain can’t keep up with her, let alone override her. The loop snapped within seconds of music being played in the here and now. So bear it in mind. Right Brain will never torture you with neverending French nursery songs or fast food jingles. As soon as the theme for My Three Sons takes root in your mind, break the cycle. Throw on a disc or plug in the iPod. Play music in the moment and your sanity is saved.

Assuming, of course, that you’re not already loopy.