There is no "tree" in "amygdala"
All right, I adimt it: I've lost it just a little bit. A few too many nights of light sleep and a few too many coffees and a lack of social interaction combined with too much fretting about the existence of God (thanks for nothing, Dostoyevsky, you bastard!) have me at just a little bit ofa disadvantage. But I won't complain. My cognitive functions are running smoothly; I want to overclock my brain, but I find I have just too much processing capability. Of course, all kinds of unsaved applications are erased as a matter of course, but whatever.
I do not wich to disturb the gentle reader with the utterly ordinary story of my fears, so I offer up to the altar this somewhat (read: not at all) allegorical story.
We begin with a sweeping panoramic view of a hill overlooking the alluvial drainage plains of the Euphrates. An eastern-themed stringed instrument plays an uplifiting tune, speckled with harmonies, sustained notes, arabesques and trills. The names of the main actors flash toward th bottom of the screen. We ar last come to a hilltop, where a fair-haired man with curly hair and deep black eyes is entering the field of vision, holding the reins of his donkey, who is loaded up with canvas bags filled with provisions and trade goods. He is obviously tired. Upon raching the summit, he pauses for a moment to gain his bearings. He looks at the brown-grey buildings of Ur in the distance, and curses under his breath. He is behind schedule. This pottery must be at market before sundown or the fat merchant will scold him, and may withhold his payment entirely, save a pittance for "lodging", which in Ur meant a night of debauchery to take one's mind off troubles...
...then the television loses reception.
Consider: "the constant parade of unfamiliar faces in the streets of any major city is an alomst imperceptible mood-destroyer. Silly as it is, each stranger who ignores us is an insult to our pride. And for once, I don't blame society. I could blame some obscure brain structure, but that's not helpful. What would we do? Lobotomize it?"
I do not wich to disturb the gentle reader with the utterly ordinary story of my fears, so I offer up to the altar this somewhat (read: not at all) allegorical story.
We begin with a sweeping panoramic view of a hill overlooking the alluvial drainage plains of the Euphrates. An eastern-themed stringed instrument plays an uplifiting tune, speckled with harmonies, sustained notes, arabesques and trills. The names of the main actors flash toward th bottom of the screen. We ar last come to a hilltop, where a fair-haired man with curly hair and deep black eyes is entering the field of vision, holding the reins of his donkey, who is loaded up with canvas bags filled with provisions and trade goods. He is obviously tired. Upon raching the summit, he pauses for a moment to gain his bearings. He looks at the brown-grey buildings of Ur in the distance, and curses under his breath. He is behind schedule. This pottery must be at market before sundown or the fat merchant will scold him, and may withhold his payment entirely, save a pittance for "lodging", which in Ur meant a night of debauchery to take one's mind off troubles...
...then the television loses reception.
Consider: "the constant parade of unfamiliar faces in the streets of any major city is an alomst imperceptible mood-destroyer. Silly as it is, each stranger who ignores us is an insult to our pride. And for once, I don't blame society. I could blame some obscure brain structure, but that's not helpful. What would we do? Lobotomize it?"
posted by A. D. at 5:11 PM
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