On my mother's condo's property, a Black man's topping a tree, his chainsaw spitting and growling. "A Black man never come off the ground," his Afro-American partner laughs up to him, as the bough comes crashing down.

I join two men watching the show. "It's a Norwich Pine, planted from seed Now out of the interactions of current and stored representations in the hippocampal network emerges a 'memory space,' encoding and updating representations in the hippocampal networks of significant relations among new ideas and all other related items he roams about in dreadful cemeteries, attended by hosts of goblins and spirits, like a mad man, naked, with disheveled hair, laughing, weeping, bathed in ashes of funeral piles, wearing a garland of skulls and ornaments of human bones, insane, beloved of the insane, the lord of beings whose nature is essentially still excitable by hippocampal activity. Such instantiations and reinstantiations occur repetitively over a period of time, reexciting and possibly modifying long-term neocortical representations, enabling memory consolidation. Furthermore, such relational processing permits the same representations to be a danger in hurricane season. There are two more, but Carlos won't let them be cut." "Carlos thinks he knows everything," the other man chimes in.

"The felling of trees is the measure of our downfall." -Carlos

The work continues until dusk: sawing, shredding, hauling away, simply trying to remember how each totemic ancestor, while travelling through the country, was thought to have scattered a trail of words and musical notes along the line of his footprints, and how an event is not enough to activate the hippocampus. Increased blood flow in the hippocampus seems to reflect some aspect of the subjective experience associated with a patch of high clouds gathering where the tree once stood.

He told me: "I alone have more memories than all mankind has probably had since the world has been the world." And again: "Many dreams are like you people's waking hours. And again, toward dawn: "My memory, sir, is like a garbage heap."



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